


Greater Expectations

by Aelys_Althea



Series: Greater Expectations [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Coming of Age, Drug Abuse, Idealised Drug Use, M/M, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 196,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wizarding World is a changed society after the death of the Dark Lord Voldemort. Two decades after Britain's liberation and witches and wizards are free to pursue the lives they choose, the boundaries upon ideals and expectations unravelling. One of magic can be whatever they want to be.<br/>Such is the case for most witches and wizards, anyway. Albus is not one of them. Not really, anyway. Being a Potter means he's not really supposed to be anything but what the world wants him to be. Fighting against the unspoken demands of society, Albus strives to pull free of such bindings and become exactly who he wants to be. It is a feat far harder than he could have anticipated.<br/>Funnily enough, he isn't the only one who thinks so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You've Got To Be Kidding Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Once again, I would like to thank the wonderfully marvelous J.K. Rowling for her efforts in creating the Harry Potter universe for people like me to explore. All canon characters and context comes originally from her; I've simply expanded upon it. I do not profit from this enterprise in any way. It is purely pursued for my own pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, everyone! So, I feel like I should apologise in advance for this chapter. It is a bit wordy, a bit of an introduction, and I SWEAR that those that come after it are markedly less so. So please hang in there and bear wiht me!! I hope you enjoy it.  
> Also.  
> WARNING: this story contains depictions of drug use (recreational and otherwise). Please note that these references are of an idealised, 'magical' nature and largely do not reflect actual substance use situations. If you think such references might be triggering, please tread carefully.

"Potter, Albus,"

The near-silent buzz of student whispers abruptly ceased. A disconcerting lull fell over the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

Swallowing back the flood of bile that rose in the back of my throat, I lifted my gaze towards Professor Weatherwell. The severe woman scanned the dwindling clutch of first years with pursed lips, the homely roundness of her face and the ruddiness of her cheeks at odds with the sternness of her expression. This was a formality for her, merely procedure; it was just another job on her long list of duties and it was evident that the Deputy had little emotional investment in the matter.

Except… when her eyes settled on me, I swore I could make out a faint spark of curiosity, a glimmer of scepticism that hadn't been there for any of the students prior. Why, oh why, did she have to take an interest in _me_?

Swallowing once more, I nervously raked my fringe from my eyes and sidled through the immobile bodies of my first-year peers. A soft tap on my back was probably meant to be reassuring, but I couldn't even quell my rising panic long enough to offer a smile of thanks to Rose over my shoulder. I couldn't even lift my gaze to meet the eyes of my godfather; I knew Neville was staring at me, but felt too nervous to respond. It was a miracle I was actually walking at all.

Nearly stumbling up the steps to the raised platform, I sunk onto the little stool beneath the matted old sorting hat that Weatherwell held aloft just above it. The stool was unnecessarily uncomfortable. Or maybe that was just because I was so tense.

When the sorting hat settled on my head, it immediately slipped down to cover my eyes. I breathed a faint sigh of relief; I would be grateful to anything to escape the curious stares of my soon-to-be-fellow students. To avoid the intent gaze of James who had attempted and failed to mask his keen interest with nonchalance and a careless half-smile. To avoid the mellow attention of the professors behind me, the sympathetic winces of the other first years –

_"You worry too much."_

I nearly fell backwards off the stool when the gravely voice whispered in my ear. It shouldn't have been surprising, really. I'd been cognizant enough to hear the hat break into poetry not half an hour before.

The voice gave a grumbling chuckle. _"Don't fret, boy, you have no reason to fear me. I'm only here to take a brief look into your mind."_ The voice paused, briefly, before continuing with a considering hum _. "Hmm, not a bad mind, not at all. Certainly more inquisitive than your brother's, though it appears to be plucking on your nerves like guitar strings."_

Biting back the urge to cower further into my already hunched shoulders, I clasped my hands together in my lap to stop them from picking at my nails. They trembled faintly, and I didn't want anyone to see.

 _"Definitely a desire to prove yourself, and yet you do not strive for power or prestige._ "

Of course not. What good would power get me? A whole lot more attention, that's what. I think I'd had my fill for a lifetime after tonight. Everyone seemed to have been staring at me from the moment I walked through the doors in the Great Hall. Before that even, from the train. Or maybe that was just my imagination. It was probably my imagination. It tended to get the better of me in such circumstances.

_"What you lack in bravery is compensated for by a determined persistence and dedication to your goal –"_

What was this, the biography of Albus Potter told in under two minutes? I bit back the urge to hiss at the stupid sentient hat to just choose already so I could get out of the limelight.

"- _and yes, even a degree of cunning rests within you, though it has not had the chance to manifest much. Yet offset by a kindness that disfavours manipulative tendency. Where to put you… where indeed?"_

I swallowed the rising of nausea that welled in my gorge once more and clasped my hands more tightly as their trembling increased. _Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, please not Slytherin…_

 _"Not Slytherin?"_ The hat chuckled again. Were hats even supposed to have a sense of humour? Or was this hat merely sadistic? _"I thought you might think as much. Your brother requested the same, and your father before him…"_

 _Please not Slytherin, not Slytherin. Gryffindor, I_ have _to be in Gryffindor. If I'm not, everyone will think –_

 _"Gryffindor, eh?_ " There was faint incredulity in the hat's grumble that caused me to wince. _"Is that truly where you want to be? Even if it would not suit you perfectly?"_

 _I don't care!_ I thought directly at the hat, my lips quivering with the urge to blurt out the words and suppressed only by the knowledge that _everyone_ would hear me if I did. _I can't be in Slytherin, no matter what you say, and if I'm in Gryffindor –_

" _Far be it for me to decide that which is most suitable these days,"_ the hat murmured, almost a sigh. _"The once-noble houses have been so mixed and churned that it is hardly so simple as placing according to personality traits."_

The hat sighed, more distinctive this time, and I had to bite back an irrational upwelling of sympathy for the – the _hat_. It must be hard to have one's primary purpose in life so disrupted. But then the terror of the moment reaffirmed itself as the hat spoke once more. More firmly this time, decisively.

 _"Mixed as they are, it almost doesn't matter your_ placement _. You say not Slytherin? I feel that Gryffindor would not be the most appropriate, but then… no,_ I _know where to put you."_

There was a thrum of satisfaction in the enchanted voice that caused my gut to roil. Or at least more than it already was. A feeling of dread suffused me. _Please not Slytherin! My Dad said that you would listen when I asked –_

"Better be…"

I winced at the pause in the abruptly louder voice. Even such a brief, deliberate pause nearly killed me!

The next moment could either make or break my future at Hogwarts.

* * *

September the first saw more wizards at Kings Cross Station than any other day of the year. Fortunately – given their distinct obliviousness to the ignorance of the surrounding Muggles, their accidental trips of magic, and their exclamations in magical reference that would leave a Muggle frowning in confusion – the majority of the masses cluttered solely along the long stretch of platform nine and three quarters.

It was a hubbub of activity, with the chatter of students and parents mingling with the screech of owls, the whistles from the conductor, and the audible gasps of smoke bellowing from the engine of the polished train. It was enough to make one dizzy, if only from the fumes of burning coal, and Harry was glad that their drop off was only short. Even if it did mean farewelling two of his children for three and a half months.

Crouched as he was on one knee, Harry couldn't very well see the mayhem that surrounded him. Not that he much cared. He didn't really care for anything save Albus wrapped firmly in his arms, the tension slowly easing from his little body. Not to disappear entirely, of course, but Harry was hopeful that his words had resounded within his second eldest son.

_"What if I'm in Slytherin?"_

Harry had forcibly pushed the comment aside; Albus shouldn't care for such matters. The world had changed in the last nineteen years, and one of the primary changes was the loosening of perceived stereotypes amongst Wizarding families. That Slytherins were all the spawn of Dark Wizards, and fit only to become Dark themselves, was one of them.

In fact, if Neville spoke truthfully – which he usually did – Harry was of the understanding that Hogwarts was the leader of such changes. The new generation of young wizards and witches was _revolutionised_. Rigidity eased, the severity of clichés and prejudices slackened. And not only for Slytherin. It was just as common to hear of old blood, the descendants of pure blood lineages, surfacing in Gryffindor and Hufflepuff as in Ravenclaw and Slytherin. There might be some mild surprise, but it wasn't all that worthy of comment.

Yes, things had changed. Albus shouldn't worry about such things as 'house placement'.

A whistle sounded from behind him and Harry eased his crushing embrace of his son to half-turn, glancing over his shoulder as he rose to full standing. It was gradual, but even as he watched Harry could see the tide parting gently, turning to drift either towards the carriages or away from them for students and parents respectively. A brief glance down at his watch and Harry switched his attention back towards his son.

He rested one hand on Albus' shoulder. The small boy blinked up at him with wide green eyes, a solemnity and maturity within them that completely surpassed that his older brother was capable of. Harry smiled. "Don't worry, Al. And ignore James. Whatever happens, I'll always be proud of you."

The words didn't seem to reassure Albus all that much, but he nodded regardless and slipped from beneath Harry's hand towards his mother. Ginny enfolded him in a tight squeeze while Harry scooped Lily into his arms. The girl was huffing indignantly at being 'left behind' once more, her eyes glassy with upwelling tears. Harry could only smile at her antics. Her time would come soon enough. Not too soon though, hopefully. It would be strange to have a childless house once more.

"You make sure you write to me tonight, alright?" Ginny was murmuring tightly into the crown of Albus' head. Her voice wavered slightly with emotion that she refused to release. "I want to hear everything. And if James is teasing you again, tell me that too. I'll set him straight."

"I will, Mum," Albus replied, his voice muffled in Ginny's jumper. That was another thing about Albus that James had forsaken; he was never too embarrassed to embrace his parents in public. Harry was heartily grateful for the fact.

Clinging to him for a moment more, Ginny finally released her son in a rush, as though ripping herself free with a determined jerk was the only way she was capable of doing so. She gave Albus a loving pat to the back of his head, sniffled back tears that had not yet fallen, before nudging him into motion.

"Off you go, then. You don't want to miss the train."

Albus nodded once more, an attempt at confidence that Harry had to admit was flimsily transparent. He only shared a loving glance with Ginny, however, as his son waded into and was lost amidst the crowd. He resurfaced a moment later on the steps of the carriage, half-turned and cast a falsely casual wave over his shoulder.

As Harry waved back, he noticed that he wasn't the only one to do so. A boy just in front of Albus was similarly waving to a point not far to Harry's left. Scorpius Malfoy by the looks of him, Harry realised detachedly, and without meaning to his eyes drifted once more towards Draco, his old schoolmate's blonde hair and smooth, emotionless face standing out like a sore thumb. Draco didn't wave, and even Scorpius only spared two, maybe three formal flicks of his wrist before slipping past Albus into the darkness of the train. It was so proper, so like Draco, the Slytherin boy Harry used to know, had always been, that he found himself biting back a humourless chuckle.

Malfoys still embodied the typical 'pureblood', what had once been the stereotype of Slythering. But no, Albus shouldn't be anxious of being sorted into Slytherin itself. And for all his worries, neither Harry nor Ginny cared a wit about what house their son would be sorted into. What kind of parents would they be if such a thing were to make them love their son any less, disdain him even the slightest? Surely even Malfoy wouldn't hold it against his own son if such a possibility were realised.

And yet, anxious his son was, Albus was a naturally fretful child; perhaps it was a by-product of growing up under the constant threat of James' pranks? Yet even in this situation, Harry did not disregard the childish fears as groundless. Albus was discomforted by the weight of expectation that sat on his small shoulders. Expectations not of his family, of course. Even Ron, for all his posturing, wouldn't spare more than a good-natured bemoaning for any of their family so sorted.

It was the expectations of the rest of the world that mattered.

Britain was a changed country after the dramatic conclusion of the Second Wizarding War. It was not entirely encapsulating; these things took time, of course. And yet, almost from the moment that Voldemort ceased his reign of terror, there surfaced a movement.

A change.

That _revolution_.

For what had started the war, what had fuelled it' fiery rage, if not the prejudices of old, the traditionalist mindset, the clear-cut lines and boundaries traced over the Wizarding world like a spider's web? Kingsley Shacklebolt had certainly not stood for the way things were and, as the still-sitting Minister for Magic, even nineteen years later, his assertion poured like a river undammed throughout the world of wizards and witches.

The discrepancies between purebloods and Muggleborns were obliterated, torn down as if by a wrecking ball. Why should Muggleborns be treated any differently simply for their heritage?

The distinct segregation from the Muggle world, the wide abyss that yawned between clashing cultures, was gradually bridged. For it would hardly be possible for wizards and witches to hope to progress if they did not embrace the very people with which they shared their country.

Standing rules and regulations were mown down. New laws were sanctioned. Departments were established in the Ministry tailored specifically towards integration of the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. Kingsley made it a point to visit the English Prime Minister every fortnight to exchange notes on the day-to-day issues and complications that boiled between their peoples. The Muggle Minister, at first hesitant, learned to embrace Kingsley's eagerness to join their worlds. Muggle Studies became just one of a subset of courses at Wizarding schools that aimed at broadening the knowledge of the youngest generation, and it was not the only one that was compulsory for the younger years.

Assumptions were dropped for what made a witch or wizard; it lay not in their blood, their family, their choice of spouse nor even the wealth that lay in their vaults. Disdain and horror where not turned in equal measure upon those who chose to live in the Muggle world, to embrace Muggle careers and ways of life over the vibrancy yet admittedly archaic lifestyles that wizards and witches had once typically followed. Trifling aspects such as adopting Muggle fashion – a far cry from the long, flowing robes of a typical witch or wizard – had become almost commonplace. There was even a vast and expanding field of research targeted towards overcoming the dampening effects of magic on Muggle technology. They'd been markedly successful so far; Harry could attest to that with the presence of the television in his own living room.

And yet even the forward movement towards a New World did not spit in the face of traditionalist tendencies. For that was not what the New World was about. For those who wished to keep on with the old ways, so long as they quelled their desires to cling to past prejudices and discriminative approaches, could very well do so. There was nothing _wrong_ with that, and though the sharp edges of traditionalist families had been worn down to limit their severity, the families that adhered to the old ways accepted the requirements graciously enough.

It was a good change. A good world. Extraordinary, Harry would even venture to claim. Though magic itself was still coveted, the secrecy of the magic-users themselves had all but disappeared. Citizens could be who they wanted to be, could follow any path they chose, embody whatever stereotype – traditional or novel – that took their fancy. They could even branch away from the stereotypes if they saw fit. It was a _good_ world.

And yet… the loosening of expectations upon the public were not entirely devoid. For where there were stereotypes. Some clichés still remained.. For there must be those that embodied each possible inclination; it was simply the way it was. Harry knew this only too well.

The Darlinghursts were infamous for their eccentricity in the Wizarding World. Like flittering butterflies, their family was renowned for embracing every new trend that erupted. If one saw a member of the Darlinghurst's without the latest piece of Muggle technology clasped in their hands, the world may as well have rocked from its axis.

The Robinstones were similar in their forward movement towards embracing the Muggle world. Each and every member of the family who had married since the end of the war had tied the knot with a Muggle. It was almost a sin to consider that any of their descendants would do anything but.

On the reverse side, the Ursulans were an old, old family who embodied the old ways. No one shunned them for their isolation from the Muggle world, so long as such isolation lacked malevolence. To see an Ursulan in the Muggle world was to see a fish out of water, taking a leisurely stroll along the sidewalk.

The Malfoy's were similar, though not so exclusive. They embodied those who tended towards Wizarding traditionalist conventions yet were lenient when it came to Muggle integration. They were figures still outstanding in the political world. More than outstanding when considering the work Draco had invested and in spite of the blow the war had struck to their name. They were the embodiment of propriety.

Harry was not oblivious to the expectations that were placed upon his own family. He himself was an idol in the Wizarding world; he knew this. It was to be expected that his lifestyle would become a 'stereotype' too. And the Potters were; their small family embodied the new movement, an embrace of the Muggle world like an old friend yet still firmly grounded in the Wizarding world as the much loved Magical Family. They were of goodness, of righteousness, of _wizard_ , in a way that made Harry faintly uneasy to consider. For with Harry as an Auror and Ginny as an ex-quidditch player for the Harpies, the expectations that his children would follow in the typically Wizard career paths, in their image, was… expected.

Even the Weasleys hadn't escaped the eyes of the public, had been tagged with their own brands. 'Family comes first' was the image that typically rested upon the shoulders of each red-head, parent and child. To consider that one wouldn't marry, wouldn't put their careers on hold to start a family, would walk the streets without a rag-tag team of siblings and grandparents and cousins and children, was nearly inconceivable. Harry thought it a good thing that Charlie still worked overseas; as the only Weasley not firmly grounded in the midst of a raucous family, questioning eyes would undoubtedly turn his way.

So no, Albus _shouldn't_ , by every right and every consideration of this New Wizarding World, have any reason to fear being sorted into Slytherin. No child should worry about such things. And yet expectation would place him in Gryffindor, and when he was, those around him, teachers and fellow pupils alike, would laugh easily and fondly and exchange words of "of course he would be", and "trust a Potter to be in Gryffindor!"

It made Harry faintly ill to consider the possibility of the outcome being anything but. Not that he cared what anyone thought of his son. But Albus was _his_ son, and Harry longed for nothing more than the happiness of his family, of his children. Perhaps that too fit with societies expectations? He didn't know, didn't really care. It was simply that everyone else would.

Drawing his eyes away from Draco as the whistle sounded once more, Harry managed to exchange a final wave with Albus before his boy disappeared into the carriage. Dropping his hand to cradle Lily more comfortably on his hip, Harry watched with sorrow and pride as the train chortled into motion. Slowly at first, in creaking increments and spurts of white smoke before picking up pace.

Lily was sobbing in his arms. That was not unexpected, Harry considered, as she had done the same the previous year when James left for the first time. And if her sobs were a little more heartfelt this year… well, Lily had always been closer to Albus.

Turning into the pat Ginny's gave to his arm, Harry followed the gentle flow of the crowd as they departed, slowly departing from the platform. It was over for another few months. Harry tried not to let his own anxieties shake him too strongly.

* * *

"… Hufflepuff!"

There was a pause. A brief pause only. Then an upwelling of baffled conversation arose, louder than it had been before. As the hat was lifted from my head, my wide-eyed gaze was met by a sea of confused, curious, and almost accusing eyes.

Hufflepuff. I hadn't even _considered_ that. From the incredulity beaming from James' across the hall, neither had he.

And from the puzzled, almost resentful stares on the faces of those around me, that incredulity was pervasive. I felt my heart sink in my chest.

 _You've_ got _to be kidding me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope that wasn't too dull. Thanks for reading! If you have a moment, please spare a word or two to tell me what you think.


	2. We Begin Again

_~Albus~_

I stepped into the carriage of the Hogwarts Express with a yawn, casting half a wave over my shoulder at Mum and Dad before disappearing inside. I had absolutely no reason to be tired. A solid ten hours of sleep is more than enough for any teenager. Too much, some would say, but hey, I like I sleep. I'm always up for a catnap. Maybe it was just the prospect of starting school again tomorrow – God help me, it was _tomorrow_ – or possibly the promise of a long, boring train trip across the length of England.

Wading my way through the students that dotted the carriage hallway – was it so hard to find a seat? To plant your bum and make it easier for everyone to get around you? – I glanced into each passing closet-like cabin for one that was vaguely empty. Really, life would be so much easier if we could just skip this whole train system entirely. What ever happened to the good old-fashioned Floo network? Even a portkey would have been –

"Hellooooo. Hello. _Hellooooo_."

I stifled a snort that Rose, behind me, didn't quite manage to smother. In front of me, a fourth year girl glanced questioningly over her shoulder at the comment, caught a sight of the parrot clinging to the inside of his cage swinging from my fingers and glaring at the world, and smirked before looking away.

Well, there was that. I doubt birds, especially Caesar, would take kindly to such treatment.

Passing a rowdy cabin, I felt a faint touch on my back and paused to glance over my shoulder. Rose jerked a chin into the cabin, giving an apologetic little smile.

"I'm gonna hang in here, if that's alright with you."

It wasn't really a question, or a request. Not even a suggestion that I might like to join her. Rose was a popular girl, even if she was a little on the quiet side, and despite that quietness always liked to be in the thick of things. And the thick of things on the Hogwarts Express happened to be the already jam-packed cabin of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw seventh years that appeared to have set in for a party of sorts before the train had even left the platform.

I shrugged, nodding, and gave a vague, waving gesture of 'suit yourself' towards my cousin. She offered a half-grateful, half apologetic smile in return that widened into a grin as she stepped through the doors of the cabin. "Patty, I haven't seen you all sum-" was cut short into muffles as the door slid shut behind her.

My cousin, the social butterfly in terms of both her quietness and her fluttering. No one would be able to tell by looking at her in such a setting just how intelligent she was, nor the fact that she often lost herself in a book to the exclusion of all else for hours on end. That she could run rings around most of the Ravenclaws in our year and she wasn't even in their house. She took after her mum, or so Dad always said.

"Goodbye, lovely. See you next time."

Caesar's squeaky words were punctuated by a wolf whistle as he glared at the closed cabin door. There seemed to be a reproach in his unblinking gaze at Rose's abandonment, though that was likely just a figment of my imagination. Almost definitely, actually. Rose wasn't overly fond of my parrot, and the feeling was entirely mutual.

Hefting the cage and resettling my day-trip bag on my shoulder more comfortably, I continued my wander down the carriage. The train had set into motion, and if anything that only seemed to entice students from their cabins and into the too-narrow hallway all the more. I hadn't thought we would be running quite so late – we left home nearly an hour before the train was set to depart – but then I hadn't taken into account the fact that Lily _never_ kept Fickle in his cat carrier and the pug-faced creature menace was more neurotic than a Niffler on Sugar Pops.

I'd know. I've seen the comparison. It's not a pretty sight.

The end compartment of the third carriage was blessedly empty. I don't know how I scored that one, but if some deity or other took pity on my poor seventeen-year-old mind to grant me this reprieve from animated children, too-loud conversation and exclamations of "I haven't seen you in ages!" then who was I to complain? I never could fathom such displays of excitement; it all seemed rather unnecessary to me. Was there really a reason to scream instead of just talking quietly?

As I stowed my carry-on in the luggage department, however, and had just snugly settled Caesar's cage onto the seat, the cabin door was rudely thrust open. A startled imp stood in the doorway. Seriously, he was about half my height, and I'm not exactly tall.

The thick-browed adolescent scrunched his freckled nose in disgruntlement at my presence. Similar expressions washed over the faces of his two similarly diminutive companions as they craned their necks to peer over his shoulder. I regarded them all with a half-raised eyebrow.

I didn't get a chance to speak though. Imp One beat me to it.

"Oi, what are you doing in here?"

I felt my other eyebrow rise. Surely that should be fairly self-explanatory? "Excuse me?"

The freckled boy narrowed his eyes in a glare. "You heard me. This is our cabin. We got it first."

I bit back a long-suffering sigh. A first year, by the sounds of things, and full of self-entitlement. "No, actually, you didn't. The cabin was empty –"

"Yeah, 'cause I just had to go and get Jeremy and Timone." He gestured over his shoulder unnecessarily to his two companions. They nodded in fervent agreement. "But we had this cabin first, so clear out."

I could. I really, really could just leave. It would certainly be easier than trying to rationalise the situation with an obnoxious little eleven year old. He looked vaguely familiar; even without the sense of entitlement that reeked from the boy like a pungent odour, I could have placed him in the Gardenshire family. They reputedly fled at the sight of a pair of tweezers, coveting the thick brow of their ancestors.

"Look, kid, I don't want to argue –"

"What house are you in?"

I paused, blinking. That was unexpected. "What?"

Imp One sneered, his lip curling. "At Hogwarts. What's your house? You can't be a Slytherin, you haven't got the spine for that, obviously. What are you, a Hufflepuff of something?"

I only just managed to restrain my urge to smirk. The kid was really in way over his head. "Yeah, you guessed it."

Satisfaction stretched the sneer further. "Well, _Hufflepuff_." He seemed inordinately derogatory of the term, as though referencing to a rather unappealing character flaw. "You should really clear out for people who are _obviously_ more privileged that you. You're just embarrassing yourself –"

"There's nothing really wrong with being in Hufflepuff," I broke in. Turning from the boys in the doorway, I settled myself in the remarkably uncomfortable and thinly cushioned cabin bench beside Caesar's cage. The parrot swung around the inside of the bars to my side, clambering like a rock-climber. "You seem to have a rather skewed impression of the house system, kid. Sorry for the rude awakening."

The first year spluttered indignantly, though whether it was at my interruption or the words themselves I wasn't sure. "I… you… Slytherin's the best house! You weak-minded Hufflepuffs just don't understand –"

I sighed loudly in exasperation, another deliberate attempt at interruption. It was actually loud enough to bring the kid's spiel to a stuttering halt. Usually I'm a non-confrontational person – I mean, non-confrontational to the extreme – but right now my complete lack of desire to find another cabin was motivation enough to stand my ground. I mean, that would take an enormous amount of effort. Besides, at this point they'd most likely all be full anyway. I didn't feel any particular inclination to share a day trip with strangers. Or not-so-strangers-but-still-unwelcome-companions.

Strangers always made me nervous.

"Look, kid, you might want to tone it down a few notches before we get to school. Most people won't take kindly to that sort of discrimination. That sort of thing, it's ancient history." I raised my voice slightly to drown out his spluttering attempt at a comeback. "Besides, you also might want to know your facts before you start insulting houses. Hufflepuff really isn't that bad. Your sister was nearly sorted into it. Said the only reason she wasn't was because she asked not to be placed into a house with colours that made her look so washed out."

The kid and his two cronies stared up at me wide-eyed. Their ringleader appeared to be on the verge of a heart attack, his face paled whiter than his sister's. "Phoebe wasn't nearly sorted into Hufflepuff –"

"Actually, she was," I corrected, leaning back into my seat. I poked a finger at Caesar through the bars in his cage, scratching idly at the back of his neck. He crooned, bowing his head to allow better access for my petting.

"Wait, no! She wasn't!" The Gardenshire boy sounded faintly desperate, panicked rather than confident in his insistence. "She would have _told_ me."

"Maybe she knew you'd just get upset." I tried and failed to bite back a yawn, settling myself more firmly in my seat. Maybe the benches weren't quite so uncomfortable after all. "She tells just about anyone who'll listen, actually. You could go and ask her, clear things up." _And leave me in peace._

Too perfectly, Caesar chose that moment to chime in. "Shove off, little cretin." His tongue clicked in the mimic of a chortle. "Goodbye, lovely."

Whether the first years would have really taken the suggestion – Caesar's or mine – was left to the unknown, as in their hesitancy to respond two tall figures stopped behind them in the narrow hallway. A cold voice managed to chill what I'd thought was a rather comfortably warm atmosphere.

"What exactly is going on here?"

As one, all three boys spun around towards the boy and girl staring down at them with flat, unforgiving eyes. They had to crane their necks to peer up at them, which made the two seventh years seem taller than they really were. Not that they weren't tall to start off with; both Rhali and Ozzy were taller than me, Ozzy by nearly a head. And really, I'm not _that_ short.

It was Rhali that was the one to really drive off the boy's cowering, however. Imposingly tall as Ozzy was, no one could quite master the glare of the Hamphyn daughter. She'd reputedly learned the expression before she could walk. It proved its effectiveness in that moment as the boys barely spared a moment to mumble something unintelligible – I thought I heard Phoebe's name uttered in there somewhere – before darting in rapid retreat down the hallway. Apparently the threat of an unknown, looming storm was a more compelling motivator to 'shove off' than my rational attempts at urging them to leave. Rhali watched them go with her chilling gaze.

A gaze that abruptly warmed the moment she led Ozzy into the cabin. "Hi, Ally. We were looking for you."

It would have been disconcerting how quickly Rhali could change her expression if I hadn't spent nearly six years growing accustomed to it. A skinny girl with long, tawny-hair always knotted in a tangle of tiny braids that look almost like dreadlocks, she was Slytherin by placement if not by traditionalist expectations and hardly as intimidating as the first years perceived her as. Or I thought so, anyway. One only had to hear Rhali's nickname for me to discern as much; I hadn't been able to shake it – not that I really cared – since the day we became friends. It was a rather abrupt decision on her part, arising with a spontaneous, "Can I call you Ally? I think I'm gonna call you Ally," and it had stuck ever since. I could only be thankful that Ozzy didn't mimic her.

I almost think sometimes that, if Rhali's propensity for slipping naturally into a glare that flattened brown eyes to black was abandoned, she would have made a rather apt member of Hufflepuff. As far as the traditionalist view went, anyway. Sometimes. Well, occasionally. For, though she postured and bad-mouthed, she wouldn't follow through with any threats of violence if it cost her life. Or her dignity. Not that she wouldn't give a mean tongue lashing to anyone being an idiot, of course.

Rhali was certainly more of a kindly, coddling Hufflepuff than some of the people in my own house, anyway. Danika Reed in the year below me was one of the biggest bitches I'd ever met.

Rhali slumped into the bench across from me with a groan. I would have placed her at being at least fifty years older than her seventeen years by the world-weariness of that sound. "I hate inducting the Firsties. Especially those pompous pureblood savages that pass as children." She stuck out her tongue in distaste, kicking her legs up onto the bench beside me.

"What was that all about, anyway? He looked like he was going to have a fit." Ozzy fell into the seat beside me. The dark-skinned boy had similarly dropped any illusion of intimidation and was now as fresh-faced and amiable as the Gryffindor he was supposed to be. He crossed slender arms over his chest and leaned back in the bench in a mirror of Rhali, feet rising and everything.

I shrugged carelessly, picking at the lock on Caesar's cage to extricate him from the confines. Ozzy kicked the door to the cabin shut helpfully, warding off any escape attempts the parrot might feel inclined to commit. It was unlikely, though, seeing as he was both far too lazy to even attempt flight and far to loyal to abandon me to my friends. "The usual. Firsties being Firsties."

"It'll be at least a month until we manage to iron out the worst of those bad habits," Rhali grumbled, sliding further down her seat until she was nearly horizontal, a bridge between the seats. We really must have made a pathetic sight, the three of us, and hardly that which is suitable for seventh year students to assume. None of us were what one might term role models; far from it if the sunken, deflated posture of our seating arrangement was anything to go by. Mum would have scolded me for sitting like a slob if she'd been there.

Ozzy patted Rhali's shin more in amusement than commiseration. "Don't pretend you don't like cowing them into dropping their 'stuck-up little bastards' act." He grinned lazily at the flat gaze Rhali turned upon him. "And just think, this is our last one _ever_."

We emitted a collective moan of appreciation, the three of us, in perfect pitch with one another. That's what happens when people get to know each other so well. Rhali, Ozzy and I have been friends since first year. Exclusive friends. It hardly mattered that we came from three different houses, and Rhali and Ozzy were 'supposed' to be at one another's throat because of it. If my years at Hogwarts had taught me anything it was that time had quelled the supposedly bloodthirsty rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin. They were more like friendly foes these days. The ultimate quidditch rivals.

"I'm already counting down the hours," Rhali muttered, a small smile settling on her lips.

"Me too," I agreed, stroking Caesars head where he nestled in my lap. "Though to be honest, I didn't account for the fact that the train trip seems to take three times as long as it realistically _should_."

Ozzy clicked his tongue in disgruntlement to punctuate Rhali's rolled eyes and nod of agreement. "So _long_ ," he groaned. "And nothing to alleviate the boredom. Who the hell had the bright idea to install Smoke Detector Charms in every carriage, anyway?"

I didn't know, but could only agree with Ozzy's sentiment. We three had discovered that little treasure at the end of our second year of Hogwarts. Suffice to say that none of us would be lighting any more fires in the cabin, contained or otherwise. The trip was long enough without having to stop off for an excessively long evacuation procedure.

I buried myself more comfortably into my seat – quite a feat as, yes, I agreed with my first assessment that they were actually quite uncomfortable – and closed my eyes. At the least, I could probably manage to get a couple more hours of sleep in. Maybe ten hours wasn't enough?

* * *

Ten hours wasn't enough sleep. Nor were the additional eight hours of dozing on and off, punctuated by smatters of conversation between my friends and I. Still, it served to fuel me for the feast and when the biting chill of the evening air slipped through my robes as I alighted from the train, I was well and truly awake.

The carriage ride was partaken by the three of us as an exclusive party as with our train trip. It always happened that way; people didn't avoid us so much as just naturally… drifted away. Like driftwood on a current. Not that I'm complaining. I don't hate people – I _don't_ – but it was as comfortable to be around only Rhali and Ozzy as it would be my family. More so even, sometimes. We settled ourselves into the carriages with the mandated slump of teenagers and it rolled into movement. Invisible horses, they were. Apparently thestrals, though I didn't really understand the need to subject the beasts to such laborious treatment. Was a simple Animation Charm of the carriages so difficult to cast?

The sorting was a monotonous affair of Weatherwell pouting her lips and gazing sternly upon the new arrivals just as she had done every year since I'd been at Hogwarts. I spared a small wave for Neville at the staff table before subsiding into unobtrusiveness, Weatherwell was not above deducting points for disruption of the sorting. I think it's expected of the Deputy to be a hard-arse, maybe to compensate for the geniality of the headmaster or mistress at the time. Headmaster Tyril was certainly not the stern type. I don't think I've ever seen anything but a friendly smile on his wrinkled face, not even when he got caught in the crossfire of a makeshift dual that turned his short white beard and curly hair a vibrant pink. Testimony to his amiable nature, he kept the pink do until the charm wore off nearly a week later. He even made the effort to wear matching robes. Weatherwell was mortified.

When the sorting finished and the hat disappeared with Weatherwell as her stout, hasty step retreated from the hall, the tables bloomed in colour. Warmth and the heady aromas of dinner flooded the room. An appreciative 'mmmm' echoed throughout the Great Hall and the next ten minutes were as close to silent as the entire student body could assume as everyone tucked in.

"Did you have a nice summer, Albus?"

I glanced to up from the platter of roasted vegetables I was manoeuvring towards me distractedly into the face of Grettle Jamison. A fresh-faced blonde girl, always perfectly made-up – I don't know how she could look so presentable after sitting for hours on a train and stewing in boredom – Grettle was the seventh year prefect of Hufflepuff and seemed to make it her duty to affiliate with each and every student in her house on a personal basis. I didn't begrudge it of her; it was commendable of her to attempt to ensure the wellbeing of her fellows. That didn't mean that I encouraged as much or urged her to pursue such with me personally.

I shrugged and turned back towards the dish. "Yeah, alright. Too short. How about you?"

From the corner of my eye I could see Grettle beam at me. Was a reply really so unexpected? Though being Grettle, it could be she simply responded as such to everyone. "Wonderful! I visited Danny in Spain for most of it; I've never been before. It's gorgeous. He's got a lovely place set up for himself."

It took me a moment to recall who Danny – Daniel Vargas, I think his name was – actually was. "You two are still together, then?"

Grettle blinked at me confusedly. "Of course. Why wouldn't we be?"

"No reason." I reached for the salad bowl and began filching out the cherry tomatoes. "Just that it might have been hard for you with him already finished school. Thought you might have taken a break or something."

Far from taking offence, Grettle beamed only more broadly. As though I'd shown heartfelt concern and regret at such a possibility. Was that what I sounded like? "It's nice of you to worry" – apparently I had – "but we're still going strong. He's working with his uncle at the Mendez Harpy Sanctuary." God bless Grettle, she sounded like a proud mother.

And proud mother she continued to sound as I was regaled with every aspect of 'Danny's' newfound livelihood. I nodded periodically as I worked my way through dinner, barely listening with half an ear. Apparently Grettle had been waiting for someone to soak up her words; we were hardly close enough for such an extended conversation otherwise.

As I was stabbing the last of my carrots with delicate precision, I noticed that Grettle of the Gab had finally stopped talking. Thinking she'd been distracted with, I don't know, one of her friends or something, I spared her a glance. Only to see her frowning pointedly at my plate.

"Um… what?"

Grettle glanced up at me, her frown shifting to simply mild concern. "You know, you should probably be eating a little better than you are, Albus. Seventh year really requires you to be at your best. Brain food would be more –"

"I eat brain food." I reached across the table and ladled another spoonful of spinach onto my plate. I don't know what the house elves do to it, but it's delicious. "Greens are healthy."

Grettle only frowned, muttering "something more than vegetables" under her breath as her lips pursing in an apt impression of Weatherwell. She didn't object further, however, instead turning back to her own dinner. Unsurprisingly, she'd hardly spared a moment to eat anything through all of her chatter.

Yes, I'm a self-proclaimed vegan. Have been for nearly four years now. Mum looked horrified when I confessed my newfound lifestyle choice; there was something in the Weasley genetic make-up that forbade anything short of stuffing their children with every item of food at hand. Mum was no less persistent on the matter. I think she was sent reeling at the prospect of being denied the opportunity.

Dad was good about it, though. He pulled Mum aside and I don't know what he said to her exactly – something about making my own choices – but she subsided. Rigidly. Every now and then she'd bring up the subject, though. It was _definitely_ something innate within her; Nanna was exactly the same. Even after so long Nanna still couldn't quite grasp the concept of veganism.

I can't exactly say why I made such a choice, only that the possibility occurred to me one day and I just… took it. I'd never been partial to meat in the first place, and the moral aspects of veganism seemed a good enough reason as any. Everyone always thought I was either really brave and told me they admired my decision or that it was kind of stupid and they couldn't fathom it. James was a bastard about it, of course, claiming that it was my love for plants that drove me to consume that which I was so passionate about. Lily always whacked him over the head when she heard him proclaim as much. She was one of the ones that called me 'brave'. She even joined me in my decision for a while before caving with a disconsolate wail of "I just miss chicken _so much_!"

It's not a profound decision on my part. Not at all. It was just a part of my character that wholeheartedly embraced any interest that passed my way. Call it a character _flaw_ – or perhaps spitting in the face of my younger, indecisive self – but I'd even heard mum call me 'impulsive' at times. To which James always snorted and affirmed that I was certainly airheaded enough for acts of impulsivity and that was she sure that I wasn't Auntie Luna's son?

Honestly, that wouldn't be so bad. Auntie Luna was great. A little eccentric in an 'Earth's child' sort of way, but great value all the same.

The feast finished with an explosive array of puddings, ice-cream and tarts that the hordes devoured like a swarm of locusts. A tactical manoeuvre by the teaching staff, I'm sure, for when Tyril stood up to give his customary speech there was not a one that begrudged him as each student bathed in the satisfaction of a full stomach and dopey weariness.

Not that Tyril had a huge amount to say. He never did, really. The stoop shouldered man offered a warm smile to his students as he welcomed them back once more, reaffirmed the restrictions on the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake – still in place from two years ago when two third years boys claimed they'd been captured by mermaids; the hysterical insistence of their parents ensured that 'precautions were set in place' – before sending us all off. I waited until the masses thinned before following; it's always best to let the Firsties and the excessively enthusiastic younger years blow off their excitement at being back in the relative freedom of school.

The Hufflepuff Basement was just around the corner from the kitchens, distinct from the placement of a small stack of barrels atop the hidden passageway. I always wondered how anyone could possibly overlook the apparent randomness of the stack of barrels – _nowhere_ in Hogwarts boasted similar furnishings – to the point that I had to question the intelligence of the rest of the school at large that they actually believed the Basement was the only common room that been entered by a non-Hufflepuff in centuries. Go figure.

The Basement was a cosy arrangement of warm colours, polished brass and rounded walls. Circular windows depicted open meadows touched by moonlight, reflecting the hour it was. Overstuffed sofas dotted the room across yellow and black rugs and similarly coloured tapestries of moving figures bedecked the walls. The familiar smattering of potted plants and creeping vines gave an earthy feel to the overall setting. Personally, I think the addition of plants added a much needed dimension to the otherwise _too_ homely room.

Someone had turned on the flat-screen in the distant corner, the opposite end to the fireplace, and the murmur of pictographic figures created a lulling melody with those of students in conversation. It could have looked out of place, the Muggle technology in the otherwise old-fashioned outfitting of the room, but Neville as Head of House encouraged embracing Muggle culture and with the repeated use of Stabilising Charms and Runic Inscriptions it worked well enough. We could even get most Muggle channels, not just the more limited viewing available solely to witches and wizards.

About half of the house was in the common room as far as I could make out. Ainsley and Dillon, two of the three other boys in my year, were chatting to three of the seventh year girls in good-natured conversation. Perfect seventh years, the role models for the Firsties that stuck out like a sore thumb for the awkwardness awe they gazed upon the unfamiliar room with. I passed them with barely a nod of my head before descending another level of the basement down shallow steps to the dormitories.

Xander, the other seventh year boy, was already sprawled on his bed in our room. This was not entirely unexpected; Xander is without doubt the laziest person I've ever met. I don't know how me manages to pass his classes. I've never seen him pick up a quill to take a note. If there is anyone who could less embody the Hufflepuff hard-working spirit, it was Xander. A nice enough bloke, though, if a little slow.

"Hey, Xander," I offered as I passed him, moving towards my own bed. He barely offered a grunt in reply. To be honest I'm surprised I got that much. I thought he was already asleep.

I always know which bed is mine at the beginning of each year, even with the shifting of rooms to make way for the younger years and that's because of the pots that sit on the bedside table. By the end of each year, I've usually accumulated quite an indoor garden around my bed. I know I'm not the only one who rings their bed in plants, though I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who doesn't solely choose flowers. Neville usually takes care of those that I can't cart home with me over the summer, and always, every year, I leave the empty little clay pots on my bedside. And each year the house elves move them to the new dorm.

Well, that and Caesar. It's a little hard to miss the parrot's wolf whistles and "hello, lovely little cretin". Though Tyril was remarkably lenient when it came to the species of pets his students could choose to bring along with them to school, the parrot could hardly live up with the owls. Most were at least three times his size and I was sure that he would quite adeptly crush them all to pieces if left in their midst for more than a minute.

I perched myself on my black-and-yellow-striped doona, bouncing slightly on the thick mattress, and kicked my trunk open while simultaneously unlatching Caesar's cage. He strutted like a king on his promenade and clawed his way onto my shoulder as I gently levered out the one plant I'd always brought back and forth to school with me each year. Or, well, a descendant of the plant if not the _exact_ one. Green thumb though James way daub me with, this particular plant was rather prone to being destroyed. And not because I insisted on bringing it to school with me each year. I'm not that bad.

The little sapling had been a little sapling for nearly two years. In all that time, it had grown only about six inches of flexible stem – a good thing too, as I wouldn't be able to fit it in my trunk otherwise – and sprouted more leaves than the hairs on a dogs back. A pretty thing, the Mottled Harproot was so named for its magical properties; when the roots were ground and added to potions, a non-reactive calming, lullaby effect was elicited. A rich, wine-red colour with darker purple splodges on thin, dry leaves, even the colours were soothing to me. It blossomed in miniscule scarlet flowers once a year for all of two days.

Smiling to myself as I straightened the spine, I fumbled in my trunk to unearth the little flower support and staked it into the soil at the base of the travel pot. There's only so much that Preservation Charms can do for a living organism, and though they tended to help with the day trip to Hogwarts it was best to stabilise the little sapling at the first instance possible.

Nodding my head in satisfaction, I rose from my bed and placed the Harproot on my nightstand beside an empty clay pot. Plucking one slender leaf from a branching limb, I muttered an unacknowledged "see you in a bit" to Xander and departed from the room once more with a gentle closing of the door. It wasn't quite ten o'clock, the curfew for seventh years, but it was getting there. Though, I admitted to myself, even had it been later I likely would have proceeded to weave my way through Hufflepuffs and clamber awkwardly from the Basement. It was honestly the most awkward entrance to a room ever, I swear. What was Helga Hufflepuff thinking making her students crawl?

But some traditions you just can't miss. And for Rhali, Ozzy and I, this was one of them.

* * *

"You did something to it, Ally."

"Hmm?"

"Yeah, yeah, you _definitely_ did something to it."

Sprawled as I was on the two-seater sofa, it was a struggle to raise my head from the warm cushions to spare a glance for Rhali. She was stretched out on the thick floor rug in a half-foetal position, her eyes nearly closed sleepily and hands folded beneath her head. Her figure was blurry with the fogginess of my vision… No, wait, that was probably just the smoke clouding the air.

Ozzy released a sigh from the armchair across the room. It was not a large room, that which we fondly called our little 'Niche'. It was barely large enough for an armchair, a double sofa, a coffee table and a narrow, largely empty bookshelf, but it sufficed for us. The Niche had rapidly become our private sanctuary in the years we'd spent at Hogwarts.

"I gotta agree with Rhali. You've definitely done something to it. "

I smiled sleepily, the effects of the Mottled Harproot tugging me into comfortable folds of relaxation. "I might have tweaked it a little bit."

"How…" Ozzy paused to yawn. "How do you even do that?"

I only shrugged in reply. Talking required too much effort for this late into the evening and it was just so comfortable to be silent right now. Besides, we'd already more than talked our fill throughout the night. From the distant memory of the last chime of the school clock, it was somewhere around midnight.

Tradition dictated that, on the eve of each new term, the three of us would meet in our little Niche and discuss the summer. Not that we didn't know everything that each other were up to, but it was nice to simply chat with supposed purpose. To exchange light-hearted jibes and deep-minded troubles. That's what started it all, the mutual consolation of anxieties. It was also what spurred me to bring the Harproot along.

Only a single leaf it took, and the slow-burning properties – incredibly slow burning – ensures that a gentle waft of musky smoke curled in a steadily thickening cloud throughout the night. It was a property that was most likely known to specialists but not spoken aloud for fear being abused. I'd stumbled upon the little wonder quite by accident, and it was one of the best discoveries I'd made. Burning with fire would rapidly devour the inch-long leaf in a crackle of sickly sweet smog that left one on the verge of hacking out their lungs. On the other hand, a slow burn with Icefyre would draw out the maximum calming effects of the plant, dozens of times more potent than the mild influence of crushed herbs in relaxant potions. It was a blessing, that discovery, and the influence of the single, cold-burning leaf was like a sponge to the spillage of our collective troubles. With each passing hour, each passing minute, the stress of those troubles would ease beneath the gentle lulling effects of the drug.

Yes, I'm not oblivious. I know it's a drug. I'm aware that the relaxant effects of the smoke are probably the only thing that clamped down on my otherwise frazzled nerves when I voiced my concerns of the school year, of passing my classes, of what the hell I was going to _do_ with my life when I finished school. Just little things that which could have a life changing impact if I happened to bollocks it all up.

I'm also not oblivious to the fact that the very reason I'm able to overcome these anxieties is in no small way attributed to the joint effort of my friends and my drug habit. I was a mess of a kid in my younger years, more than I think even Mum and Dad knew. Fretting about every little aspect of my lifestyle, about every possible decision I could make, it was only the first time that I fell beneath the relaxant effects of the Harproot that I realised just how much it was weighing me down. It was bloody _exhausting_.

So yeah, I have a bit of a drug problem. Or a bit of a drug solution, if one considers it from a different light. For it is a solution to probably one of the biggest issues I could face as a teenage boy. And I was careful; none of that Muggle crap that does more harm than good, that chews at your brain with addiction. I don't do that stuff… at least, not anymore.

The only effects of the Harproot that could be perceived as detrimental are a calmer demeanour that can be likened in its excessiveness to the sleepy mellowness of weariness, a forcibly neutral outlook, and the rather unfortunate effects of smelling like musky smoke for hours after immersion. All other cognitive functions remained well in order, and for someone like me who often struggles with tightly wound nerves, removing that tension helped me to function better. No ill effects at all, really, when you considered it like that.

Well, except maybe a propensity for nodding off to sleep at unfortunate intervals exposed to it too frequently. At one point, in third year after a particularly stressful bout when faced with my first failing grade – astronomy it was; I just can't get a handle on the stars – I succumbed to the habit of unhealthily frequent use and slept through an entire day without stirring.

Everyone just thought I was under the weather and disregarded the anomaly as simply that. Thank God no one ever told Mum, though. She would have had a heart attack, to be sure.

I think it's probably as much because of my taste – or smell – for Harproot as it is my relationship with Neville that I have such a love for plants. For learning their properties, for tending them fondly, for growing them in new and intricate ways. I've become something of an avid botanist – not as restricted to Wizarding plants as a typical Herbologist was – and in recent years even began experimenting with splicing and hybridisation. I'm not ashamed to admit I've tampered with some illegal combinations, just to see their effects – rather explosive in the case of Fire Oats and Redneck Eucalypt – though I'm not saying I'd preach it to the world. Besides, I know when to keep my mouth shut. Fanciful hybridisations aren't the only thing I've dabbled in.

So Ozzy and Rhali weren't far off the mark when they suggested I'd 'done something' to the Harproot. I had. Magical, this time, and it just so happened to have the rather beneficial effect of sharpened potency. A good thing, too, as Rhali had talked for nearly half an hour about her parent's crumbling relationship that would have undoubtedly dissolved into misery without the calming effects of the faintly purple smoke.

Illegal or not – for I'd heard somewhere that smoking, even indirectly, was disallowed on school grounds – the Harproot did have it's benefits.

I snuggled further into my sofa, my cushion, and let my eyes drift closed. It had gotten to the point, the smoke thickened enough, that the three of us were teetering on the edge of sleep. A blissful, wonderful, comfortable sleep…

Somewhere in the distance, the bell chimed again. Once. One o'clock. We should really be getting back to the dormitories. One of the reasons we tended to stay out so late was to avoid passers-by and the possibility of them catching a whiff of the smoke upon our departure. We could, technically, leave now, but it was just so comfortable…

Evidently Ozzy realised the significance of the chiming bell too, and whether it was because of his his slightly larger frame or simply a marginally higher resistance to the effects of the Harproot, he struggled into motion.

"Come on, you pair. We should go."

There was a groan from Rhali as she curled tighter into her foetal position, barely reacting when Ozzy wavered to his feet and nudged her with a toe. He abandoned his efforts a moment later and approached my side. I don't know whether he thought I was actually asleep or whether he was just being nice, but he gently shook my shoulder.

"Al, time to get up."

I peeled one eye open from the thin slit it had fallen into and rolled an eye towards him. "Can't you just carry me?"

Ozzy yawned, scratching a hand over his buzzcut. "What, and get a face full of vinegar when I try to get into your common room again? No thanks, that stuff clings to you like a leech. I couldn't get rid of it for days after, last time."

"Not even if I say please really nicely?"

Snorting, Ozzy shook his head. He seemed slightly more awake now that he was on his feet. "Not even then. Especially not then."

"Ah, but we have no such underhanded booby traps in Slytherin," Rhali announced as she heaved herself into sitting. "It should be perfectly fine to deliver me to the dungeons."

"Or you could return the favour for once," Ozzy replied pointedly. He always did, after each time he dragged a smoke-dazed Rhali back to her dorms. Rhali gave him the same reaction each time, which was to blatantly ignore that he had spoken.

We ambled to our feet, those of us not already standing, and I scooped Caesar from his fluffed nest on the arm of the sofa. He was fast asleep, even when I lifted him up, which might have been worrisome had I not both rigorously studied the effects of Harproot on a bird and experienced his response beforehand. Never let it be said I don't take precautions before exposing my pets to illegal substances.

I didn't bother attempting to disperse the smoke before we left the room. Neither did Ozzy and Rhali. It could have been the house elves that did so in our stead or simply the effects of time on dissipating the fumes, but I'd never heard a whisper of musky, sweet aromas scented on the sixth floor eastern corridor before.

Which was probably one of the reasons why, when we opened the door and walked dazedly into the waiting prefect, he didn't even need to ask what we had been doing. The evidence clung all over us.


	3. We All Choose Our Paths. Sort Of.

_ S_

_~Scorpius~_

" _I am seen in the water if seen in the sky. In rainbow, jay's feathers, and lapis lazuli."_

I fought not to roll my eyes at the preening brass eagle. The riddle was almost too easy.

"The colour blue."

The murmur of the first years behind me, questioning and slightly awed, followed me as the door to the tower swung inwards. Without a glance over my shoulder to ensure my charges followed my lead, I strode through the portal.

Ravenclaw common room was empty as I stepped within. It was a tradition of the students to await their arrival and let them see it in all of its sparse glory before it was invaded and overwhelmed by chatter. I personally thought it had more to do with no one wanting to bother with the first riddle of the year, leaving it up to whichever poor prefect escorted the Firsties to the first night back.

There were faint whispers of continued awe as the eight new students stepped slowly into the room. I allowed them a moment to appreciate their new living quarters. Rowena Ravenclaw had left her mark on the airy, circular room coloured for its namesake with midnight blue carpets and bronze wall adornments. A collection of blue couches and tables with too many stools dotted the open space of the room and bookcases leaned casually against every wall, stationed between long windows framed in silken azure curtains. Though dark outside, I knew that the view from each was spectacular for all angles of the school grounds. I personally liked that of the mountains the most; there's something oddly poignant about the stoic immovability of their presence.

"Welcome to Ravenclaw Tower," I began, quickly drawing the attention of each of the first year students. No doubt the over-confidence of troublemakers and slackers would surface given time, but for now they all listened attentively, eager to hear whatever words of wisdom I could bestow upon them. I was actually quite grateful for the fact; I'd been burdened with the orientation speech once before, and I was already tired of it. "For the duration of your time at Hogwarts, this will be where you will spend much of your time. The common room is always open to the studious; the academic mentors list of fifth years and older will be posted by the end of the week on the noticeboard."

Each head turned towards the corkboard to the side of the Tower entrance, the door still propped open by the waiting Ravenclaws fidgeting on the step beyond. I ignored them; if I had to suffer through the introduction, so did they. "As you can see, there is sufficient shelf space for the storing of any books you may wish to keep on hand when borrowed from the library." Another gesture drew the Firsties eyes to the periodically spaced bookcases. "You will be allocated a shelf by tomorrow afternoon. Don't feel like you have to keep it full; there's no expectations in this regard. Stash whatever you like upon it, though do refrain from including snacks in your selection; we had a bit of a rat problem three years back when someone went a little too far in that regard."

There was an uneasy shiver from the new students and a smattering of half-muffled snickers from the older. I ignored both responses equally. "Behind me," I gestured towards the white marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw at the opposite end of the room, "through the archway leads to the dormitories. Boys head down the stairs, girls are further up. First years enter through the first door you come across. You possessions have already been placed within your rooms. Please don't attempt to change your bed arrangement; the house elves get very distressed if you do. If you have any further questions, feel free to approach myself or another prefect."

I paused for a moment, ensuring that each of them nodded their understand. When they each obliged, I made a shooing motion to the clutch of eleven-year-olds and they scrambled as though Kneazles nipped at their heels. Boys and girls divided and disappeared into their dormitories respectively.

As though an invisible barrier had been taken down, the rest of Ravenclaw flooded into the room. Chatter picked up with the volume of wearily enthusiastic and jovial students that fell onto stools and into couches or wandered towards their own dormitories. I offered faint nods to my fellow prefects and received grateful nods in kind, murmurs of "Thanks, Scorpius", before taking myself from the room.

The door to the seventh year boy's dormitory creaked slightly as I opened it. Blessedly empty – all of the other four boys were undoubtedly making merry in the common room above my head – and quickly identified my trunk and the four-poster bed it lay at the end of. I sunk onto the thick mattress, mindlessly tugging the curtains around me and sighed wearily.

Coming back to school always took a bit of getting used to. Not only the coursework, the study load that increased every year, but also the prefect duties and my quidditch commitments. Interacting with people my own age again. All of it was so vastly different to my preoccupations over the summer that it left me slightly unhinged, like waking up to what should have been a winter morning to find a desert sun glaring overhead. It was wearying simply trying to adjust.

All of my friends were older than me, and as such all had already left school. Not to say recently for the most part; save for Hamish and Phillippe, everyone else had at least five years on me and half of them I hadn't even known in school. Call it maturity on my part, but I just found it easier to be around those that didn't waste breath nattering on about inconsequential things like pocket money and whether there'll be treacle tart for pudding that night.

I know it's a product of my upbringing. Father didn't raise me as rigidly as he was reputedly to have experienced, and the traditionalist prejudices that many pureblood families still struggled with today, despite public recognition that, yes, Muggles were people, but even so I was taught what was 'proper'. Who to mix with, how to talk to people, what to say to get in their good books, to make the connections that I'd need when I got out of school. Because, being a Malfoy, it was a given that I'd end up in a position entailing high-staking communication, swimming through the complexities and cunning of dextrous politicians. Just like Father did; he often reminded me he'd done as much, and how scaling the political ladder certainly hadn't been through intimidation. Quite the opposite, actually.

So, from the time I could string a sentence together, I was conversing with and befriending people twice my age. Apparently their maturity rubbed off on me, because in Ravenclaw – and to my friends, in fact – I was know as 'quite the gentleman'.

I'd like to think I am. I try hard enough. To excel at school. To put forth my all for every quidditch game. To fulfil my duties as a prefect. To ensure I did what was _right_. And, generally, I believe I succeeded quite well. I topped nearly every class, with Rose Weasley being my only real competition. I may not be quidditch captain, but I'm the best beater in the school. It's not boasting; everyone says it. And I may not be Head Boy – such a role was given to Jackson O'Donnell, of course, angelic Gryffindor that he was – but I know many of my year mates look up to me and followed my lead.

I'm making a name for myself, as my father didn't expressly say he wanted for me but alluded to nonetheless. People respected me and I even had my own little gang of followers of sorts who seemed to think that copying my style would actually get them somewhere in the world. Why did they even bother? I've been doing this my whole life and even I'm not an expert at what I admittedly can't even fully describe.

It was quite exhausting, really, to push oneself to perfection all the time. It was only mildly gratifying to overhear the oft-spoken exclamation that I'd succeeded in the eyes of many of my fellows.

I rubbed my temples, struggling to ease the growing headache. I have potions for them – not as good as Muggle pills for this kind of thing, I don't think, but I'd never tell Doctor Gillifree as much – and released another sigh. The bed was really quite comfortable, and the only thing keeping me from falling to sleep was the fact that I was still dressed in my school robes and I'd regret sleeping in shoes come morning.

Still, it didn't stop me from drifting into a light doze within half an hour.

A doze that was rudely interrupted by the entrance of Zachariah. Well, not rudely by intention, but any sort of interruption felt intrusive. The throbbing in my head made every sound just a little too loud, a little demanding.

"Scorpius, you in here?"

Squinting my eyes open, I dragged my curtain half-open and half-rolled to peer at the dormitory door. "Zachariah? What's wrong? Do you need something?"

Zachariah, a short, immaculately groomed boy in spectacles too large for his face, turned towards me from where he peered through the doorway. "Oh, hi. There you are."

"Here I am. Did you want something?" I repeated, striving to keep the sigh from my voice.

Stepping into the room, Zachariah drifted towards what I could only assume was his own bed, loosening his tie as he went. We get along fairly well, the two of us, mostly because I find him less immature than the rest of my classmates. It was usually the two of us partnered together when we did group work in class and it was for that reason that I allowed some leniency with his belated reply. Zachariah was like that; he seemed to put a lot of effort into thinking before speaking, an admirable quality if he only thought a little quicker.

"Winona's looking for you."

I frowned, siting up slowly. "Winona? Do you know what she wants?"

Shrugging, Zachariah fell onto his mattress and began unlacing his shoes. "Prefect duty or something, I suspect."

"Prefect duty? At," I tugged my pocket watch – my father's pocket watch – from the pocket of my robes – and blinked in surprise at the time, "twelve o'clock?"

Zachariah shrugged again but made no further comment.

My frown deepened as I considered before realisation hit me. It was slow in coming; I put it down to the swirling headache. I bit back a groan and sighed instead. "I think I know what this is about."

"Yeah, good luck to you with that," Zachariah replied distractedly. It was a little bit of an automated reply, but I put it down to the fact that he was currently intently fumbling with his shirt buttons.

I rose from my mattress with a squeak of springs. "I'll see you later, then."

"See you."

And I went to seek my Head Girl. Not before I'd downed an Anti-Headache Potion, however.

It was what I'd expected. The late night rounds. Ravenclaw always got landed with it for some reason; probably because old Flitwick was too benevolent and eager to offer his own students up for the joys of wandering the halls and ensuring that no late-night party-goers still stumbled towards – or away from – their dorms.

There were still at least a dozen students sprawled about the common room, despite classes starting the next day. Winona approached me as soon as I ascended the stairs from the boy's dormitory, brushing her dark fringe from her eyes and behind her ear in the practiced motion of resignation. Her face was faintly apologetic when she spoke. "Oh, Scorpius, good. I wasn't sure if you'd gone to bed."

"Not quite, Winona," I replied, biting back the comment _"_ Though I was nearly there _"_ before it escaped my lips. "Was there something you needed?"

Nodding shortly, Winona jerked a finger over her shoulder. "We've got late-night shepherding. And seeing as the both of us are seventh years now, the joys of such a duty rest on our shoulders."

"Joys indeed."

Winona smiled slightly, but quickly suppressed it. "Sorry to ask this. I know it's a pain."

At such words, how could I feel resentment towards her? Winona Winfrey was a model student and an exemplary prefect. She was an even better Head Girl. I could recognise such qualities in her even with our rocky past that led to a perpetual state of semi-awkwardness. We'd dated for nearly a year when I was fifteen and it hadn't ended particularly well. My fault, I'd admit. Something just didn't feel right in our relationship, and it had nothing to do with Winona. She was fantastic; intelligent, kind, a dry sense of humour. Pretty, with her dark curls and thin face, wide hazel eyes that seemed eternally filled with compassion and the desire to be helpful. I don't know what my issue was, and told her as much. She'd been hurt, and I'd seen the faint resentment, so uncharacteristic of her, every time we'd spoken for almost a year after. Such resentment had subsided to the uneasy companionability of those forced to work together in perpetual discomfort.

I shook my head. "It's fine, really. We only need, what, half an hour, an hour at most?" Winona shrugged, then nodded affirmation. "Why the professors feel they can respectably shunt such duties off to their students at these hours is beyond me."

Winona smiled at me over her shoulder as she led the way from the tower. "I know, right? Though to be honest, I'd rather I was up until one in the morning chasing kids into bed than Flitwick. He's so old, he needs ever moment of rest he can get, and you know that if the students didn't do it he'd put up his hand to take the duty in an instant."

I nodded in agreement. Flitwick was _really_ old. He'd been a professor at school when my father had come through – and was no spring chicken then – and didn't appear to be leaving any time soon. An ancient amongst elderlies, he was. The only person who approached him in years teaching at Hogwarts was Hagrid and he had giant blood in him that hid his years a little better.

Winona and I agreed to split the prescribed routes between us to cut down the time; she'd take the western and northern sectors of the castle, I the eastern and southern. We parted ways outside at the base of the Ravenclaw Tower steps with brief words of 'good luck' and a muttered _Lumos_ before heading on our way.

I found three. Not three students, mind, three _cache_ s of students. All up, they were nearly fifteen still out of bed, and none of them even with the excuse of being in seventh year that extended their curfew a couple of hours. When the school bell tolled one o'clock, I'd paced just about the entire length of my assigned route, sending the last gaggle of giggling fourth years scurrying in various directions with a reprimanding scowl. I shook my head; didn't they know they had classes tomorrow? No, of course they knew, but didn't they care?

I was making my way back to Ravenclaw Tower, down a shortcut along the sixth floor, when it hit me. It was very faint, so faint that I almost didn't smell it at first. But I've been mocked for the sharpness of my nose, and it's not entirely inaccurate, though said mockers were more prone to describing its physical sharpness than any keenness of olfaction.

Following such keen senses with soft sniffs, I was drawn along a short branch from the main corridor. It was musky, faintly sweet, and smelled… really nice.

There was only one door I could possibly stop at and it was at the end of the truncated corridor. There was absolutely nothing about it that screamed 'OPEN ME', nothing remarkable at all except for the smell that was _definitely_ coming from inside. And call me cynical, but I'm fairly certain I knew at least a little of the nature of the aroma.

Hefting my wand slightly, I raised my hand to knock on the heavy wood before pausing with a frown. In the unlikely event it was a teacher inside then it was hardly my place to intrude. If it was a student then their actions deemed them unworthy of the courtesy of a knock. My hesitation sorted out my brief stint of indecisiveness, however, for a moment later the door swung inwards.

I took a half step backwards to avoid the stumble of a tall boy before he caught himself. He gave a slight yelp and nearly crashed backwards again into what I could see was a small, shadowed room beyond. It was smaller than my parlour at home. There was a grunt and a muffled shriek of indignation. The light from my wand illuminated the hallway yet cast the student who had fallen backwards – apparently onto at least one other student – into darkness.

Taking a resolute step forwards, I too immediately found myself with the abrupt need to stumble backwards, though for an entirely different reason. It had a slight delay, the smoke drifting from the room, but as I raised my wand once more there was a faint purplish discolouration in the darkness of the hall.

Smoke.

They were smoking.

In school. At one o'clock in the morning.

I bit back a sigh of exasperation at the very notion. Honestly, if you're going to get high, why not at least make it during the day rather then when you should be sleeping? We were at _school_. I waved my hand before my face to dispel the lingering smoke. Not that it smelled bad or anything; it was actually quite a pleasant aroma. I was simply reluctant to inhale any unknown substances, especially from slackers.

Slackers of whose identity I was already fairly certain.

My suspicions were confirmed when what turned out to be a trio of seventh years untangled themselves enough to clamber to their feet. I lifted my wand again slightly higher, illuminating the surrounds enough to notice that none of them looked even slightly shameful at being caught out after curfew. Smoking.

Oscar Ipping, Rhali Hamphyn and Albus Potter. The three stoners of the school. It was a generally acknowledged fact about the three, a fact that was unanimously coveted by the entire student body so as to keep their secret from the professors. I don't know why everyone sort of just agreed to assist them in their endeavours Maybe it was because we all similarly unanimously acknowledged them as being a little weird; they were not unapproachable people any of them – well, except for maybe Rhali – but there was a very pronounced otherness about them all that pronounced them as 'outliers'.

One only had to take a look at them to see as much. Though in terms of appearance they were about as different as three people could be, there was definitely a characteristic theme running through the trio.

Oscar Ipping was a tall boy. Taller than me and probably the tallest in our entire year. With dark skin that someone with the sun-cursed fairness of myself could only envy – I'm sure _he_ never lit up like a red pepper when he spent more than five minutes in direct sunlight – he kept his hair cropped in a crew cut so close to his scalp that it was barely a skin cap. I remember at the end of last year he'd grown something of a fuzz on his strong jaw, but evidently had disregarded such attempts for he was clean-shaven now. From what I knew, his mother was a bit of a nomad, never settling down in one country for long enough to 'go native' and dragging Oscar along with her wherever she went. When he was not in school, anyway. When I spared it a moment's thought, I would consider that the constantly rumpled look he favoured embodied the life of a wanderer. He always seemed a little detached and, though he was friendly enough to just about everyone, never seemed particularly close to his classmates. Except Potter and Hamphyn, that was.

Rhali Hamphyn was at the other end of the spectrum. A relatively tall girl herself, I almost cringed every time I saw her for the matted braids she seemed unwilling to expose a brush to; they looked to have morphed even closer towards dreadlocks over the summer, something that nearly made me nauseous at the sight of. She had thin, sharp features and always wore a glare that had initially made me consider her to be a rather unhappy person until I realised that it was simply the way her face rested. Maybe she needed glasses or something. She was curt in a way that made her unapproachable, but I'm not completely oblivious to the fact that Slytherin gossips claimed she could actually be quite a nice person on the rare occasion. The trick was actually getting her to talk to you.

The Hamphyns were a mediocre Wizarding family, with several generations of wizards and of middling class. Nothing particularly special, save that I think it was Thomas Hamphyn, Rhali's uncle, who wrote _'The Wonders of Modern Magical Medicine'_ , a bit of a revolutionary book both for those who hadn't the foggiest inkling of medicinal terms and the experts in the field. It made him a millionaire practically overnight. Even five years down the track I'd heard of people wondering if Rhali, his only niece, would follow in his footsteps.

Then there was Albus Potter. He was quite a bit shorter than the other two, but that wasn't saying much. One would think he was an eccentric, maybe even what was commonly referred to as a 'hippi' if the twins Lorcan and Lysander Scamander didn't so entirely outshine him in that department. A rather pale boy with big green eyes and thin cheeks that made still managed a dimple on the rare occasions he actually smiled, he had messy tresses of black hair loosely brushed back and just long enough to be tied in a half updo that it was _always_ held in. Somewhere around Christmas last year he'd charmed a lock of his hair to grown green – his sister, Lily, abashedly preached that it was 'Lorcan who made him to it' to anyone who would listen – that always hung beside his face. It almost perfectly matched the shade of the vibrant parrot that he carried on his shoulder most of the time out of class hours. The parrot that was currently cradled in his hands.

He was an odd one, was Albus Potter. May speculated as to just how he had become so odd, born into such a reputable family. I'd wondered myself, once upon a time, in the early years of my schooling when I'd been feeling out potential connections in everyone, but such interest had rapidly died. He was strange, and that was about all there was to it.

Different they may be, and from entirely different families and backgrounds, but then there was the Feel of them. I couldn't place a name to it, except that if one looked at them all standing beside one another, the Feel was very apparent. All of them were rather waifish, the thinness that came from doing too little exercise but not eating quite enough to put on an ounce of fat. Coupled with the general rumpled appearance – Hamphyn and Potter weren't quite as bad as Ipping, but it was still a distinct characteristic – and their quietness around people unless directly spoken to, and it created a overall aura of… Feel.

Yet even with this distinguishing characteristic, one could hardly call any of them extraordinary. They may have some element, some aspect of their family background, which many would call 'exceptional' yet none of them had anything particularly special about themselves. There were far more exemplary students at school; Julia Thomas for one was an incredible artist, just like her father, while Nathaniel Atkins was a registered Animagus at the age of sixteen.

None of these three were 'special' by comparison. Not in the least. And I knew this because… well, because it was sort of my unallocated assignment to know as much about every other student at Hogwarts as possible. I'm not a gossip, of course, and would never stoop to such, but I do know.

As I looked upon them all, wavering slightly on their feet, I couldn't quite contain my sigh of exasperation. Bleary eyed as though they were on the verge of sleep and seeming to yawn in turns – nearly triggering one of my own – I could have maybe even accepted the excuse that they had been sleepwalking if they weren't all three together. And if the lingering scent of smoke didn't still hang in the air.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

The three blinked at me in something close to surprise, as though in the few seconds of silent observation they'd quite forgotten I was there. I don't know how they managed that really, seeing as no one had moved an inch since they'd all heaved themselves to their feet.

Ipping was the first one to gather his bearings enough to reply. Quite intelligently, too. "Um… what?"

"You're smoking. In school. After curfew." I kept my words slow and deliberate. I don't know how off their faces they were. I wasn't familiar with the smell of the smoke and couldn't pinpoint the effects. Not that I can claim any knowledge of recreational drugs at all, but still.

"Yeah. Yeah, we were." Hamphyn replied in a mimic of my slow enunciation. She wasn't glaring for once, but maybe that was because her eyes were nearly drooping shut. If it were possible to stand and talk while sleeping, Hamphyn was making a pretty good attempt at it. "Your point?"

I frowned at the girl. "My point being that I'm a prefect and there are rules. And it just so happens that it's my job to enforce those rules."

"Look, it's not –" Ipping paused for another jaw cracking yawn that ended in a sleepy groan. "It's not like everybody doesn't know we do it."

"Yeah, even you can't be that oblivious, surely, Malfoy." Hamphyn blinked rapidly as though straining to keep her eyes open.

I rolled my own. "Just because everyone knows doesn't mean it's right. And besides, you've never actually been caught before; everyone just knows what you're up to." I couldn't keep the faint trace of smugness from my tone as the realisation dawned. It was true; though everyone _knew_ the trio frequently engaged in such activities, no one had ever actually caught them in the act before. Which would make me the first.

"Look, Malfoy," Ipping attempted to placate me with a mellow tone and a pat of the air before him. I don't know whether he actually meant to pat me on the shoulder or what, but it was faintly amusing to watch the hazy gesture. "We only ever do it in our own time, and away from everyone else. S'not like we're hurting anyone or anything."

"No, not hurting. Just asphyxiating any poor soul that happens to walk along the sixth floor corridor." I raised an eyebrow pointedly.

"At midnight?" Hamphyn replied, raising a wobbly eyebrow of her own.

"Actually, it's one o'clock," Potter mumbled, speaking for the first time. I spared him a glance and… he didn't even look to be paying attention to the conversation. His head drooped in what I assumed was his drifting into sleep as he stroked the parrot in his hands. What in Merlin's name did he even have the parrot with him for?

"One o'clock, whatever," Hamphyn continued, waving the comment aside. "Point is… oh bollocks, I don't even care." She sighed and seemed to swim out of her drug-induced haze – with remarkable efficiency, I must admit – to finally shift her famous glare upon me. "Are you going to turn us in, Malfoy, or can we go to bed now?"

I felt my eyebrow creep further up my forehead. "You're just going to go to bed?"

"Pretty buggered myself, actually," Ipping said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over one eye each. "And shit, we've got class tomorrow."

"That we do," I agreed, pursing my lips. Maybe they weren't as oblivious to their crimes as they seemed. The resigned nodding of the trio's heads added credit to the assumption.

I don't know what it was about them, but that immediate inclination to keep their secret a secret rose within me. It shouldn't, I knew. I always played by the rules, do what I'm supposed to, but for the life of me I couldn't see myself going to any of the Head teachers. Longbottom would probably treat it pretty well, but Killian and Yeong would most likely blow a fuse and express their hearfelt displeasure respectively. Especially Killian. He was all about upholding the standard of Gryffindor, whatever that meant.

So instead of scowling and directing them to the nearest teacher's office, or assigning them each a detention, I lowered my wand and sighed in exasperation. "And, if you want to get any sleep at all tonight, you should probably make for your dormitories post-haste. I'd suggest running but I doubt any of you are up to that."

Aren't I nice? Not even any deducted house points, though that was more because I suspected that none of them would care a wit no matter how many I took from them.

The three turned their faces towards me, blinking owlishly in confusion. Or maybe that was just the lingering effects of whatever they were smoking. Even Potter paused in stroking his parrot to regard me questioningly. "You're just letting us off the hook?" Ipping's tone was incredulous.

I shrugged one shoulder, turning to face down the corridor so they wouldn't be able to see the discomfort struggling to make itself known. "Just so long as I don't catch you doing it again." Which, I realised after I said it, was not a request to not partake in the act _itself_.

Leading the sleepy trio back onto the wider, adjoining corridor, I paused to gesture them onwards. They divided, with the two boys heading one direction and Hamphyn in the other, though I doubt even they knew if the routes they took would actually lead them along the swiftest path to their dorms. I stood rooted to the spot until they disappeared into the distance.

Or at least until just before turning the corner. Potter paused and glanced over his shoulder at the last minute. "You know, if you ever want to join us, Scorpius, you're more than welcome to. You do seem a little tense, and seriously, it takes the load off."

"That's true." Ipping added after a moment. "Besides, we're always safe and careful with our methods." The casualness of his tone suggested they were referring to a hobby that was very _not_ illegal. I blinked at them, slightly stunned, before whipping my head towards the other end of the corridor as Hamphyn chimed in.

"Yeah, that could work. Fill out our little party and all. I always thought we were lacking a Ravenclaw." She made a sound that could have been a snicker before disappearing entirely from the circle of light my _Lumos_ illuminated. Potter and Ipping smiled in tandem before similarly disappeared.

I didn't move for a good couple of minutes after that, lost in the unexpectedness of the suggestion. Maybe I was just tired, but they weren't really making sense to me.

Shaking my head, I rubbed a weary hand across my brow and started back for Ravenclaw Tower. Whatever. I could think about it tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning I was out of bed at the crack of dawn even with my admittedly late night and wandered down to the Great Hall to scavenge some breakfast before the masses descended. As I dropped onto the bench at Ravenclaw's table and bit into my toast… maybe it was the silence of the hall, but my thoughts immediately drifted back towards last night. I don't know what made it linger, but the words of the three outcast students still rung in my mind. Potter's particularly, actually. Did I really look tense? Was that how I appeared? I often felt as such, but no one had ever commented as such before.

Or maybe they resounded because it was a Potter who said them.

I've never had much to do with any of the Potters, but that didn't mean they didn't interest me. That I didn't want to know about them. Or, at the very least, that I had once upon a time been a little curious. I blame my father for my curiosity, for the way that he talked about their family. About Harry Potter in particular. It's strange, to hear him speak; he has mentioned on more than one occasion that they used to be rivals – more than rivals, I suspect, but never questioned his use of the term – but even so, whenever Father spoke of Mr Potter it was with respect that wasn't begrudging or resentful. That in itself was surprising. Draco Malfoy rarely expressed respect for anyone and when he did it was _always_ begrudgingly.

So of course I was interested about the Potter family. More interested even than their still-continuing celebrity status warranted.

That's not to say I leapt at any opportunity to potentially befriend one of them. That was not the way I was taught – or had learned – to best approach people. Gather knowledge about the subject, then slowly ease oneself into the position of a peer, a companion, a friend. My decisions were always slow in the making, ensuring I'd hashed out every possibly disagreeable aspect of proceeding before doing so. I gathered knowledge. And what I learned was remarkably dull. They were a reputable family and my father respected them. And that was about it. Who knew, maybe such a relationship with the Potters would eventually be beneficial?

James Potter was about as far from the type of person I would be likely to befriend as I could think of. Loud, obnoxious in front of his friends, popular to the point that I had to question whether he was capable of leaving a room without half of the rest of its occupants immediately rising to trail behind him. He was in the year above me and from the first day of his second year was drafted onto the quidditch team. He made a formidable chaser; I could attest to that, as I'd played against him enough times to gauge his skill. I had to admit that his decision to pursue a career as a sportsman was suitable. Following in his mother's footsteps, to be sure.

Lily Potter wasn't at school until I was in third year but to be honest I don't think that even had she been my age we would have gotten along. About as popular as her brother, she was loud and demanding in a way that somehow didn't irritate those around her. Suffice to say that, when the Potter daughter was in a room, attention better be on her or everyone would hear about it. And yet even with her set of lungs and apparent callousness, there was talk by the time she was twelve that, as James followed his mother's career path, Lily would definitely fall into her father's footsteps. She seemed quite happy about the assumption,; from what I'd heard, 'I'm going to become an Auror' was something of a catch-cry for her.

No, Lily and I would not have gotten along well. Which left Albus.

Albus was in my year, but in Hufflepuff and seemed rather closeted so I didn't spare much thought for him. Not to say that he wasn't noticed. He was a _Potter_ after all. One could hardly help but notice. And noticed even more because, though it was slow in becoming apparent to the world, Albus evidently did not conform to the formula of 'Potter Child' at all. He wasn't popular – rather far from it, but more due to his oddities than anything else – and he wasn't a star quidditch player. He wasn't even on the team. He was generally mediocre in classes, except for Herbology, which had baffled me a little until I heard from someone that Professor Longbottom was his godfather. Apparently he'd sown a green thumb in his godson from a young age. Whatever reason, though it astounded me when I discovered he was top of the class. He didn't make noise about it. None at all.

For that alone, that straying from the expectations of 'Potter', I found a mild curiosity stir within me. His attitude was so far from anything I'd considered for myself; the Malfoy family had a societal role to fill, those curse-damned 'expectations' that seemed to be tagged onto only certain families while everyone else was allowed – expected, even – to chose absolutely _whatever_ they wanted to do with their lives. Albus, for some reason, appeared to be following that general rule of the Wizarding public. People were uneasy with the realisation, but that soon died down slightly to the naturally unfolding exclusion of the 'odd' boy.

It made Albus intriguing. An intrigue that had lasted for all of about a week, I think, before I decided that friendship wasn't on the cards. Albus was a self-imposed outcast as far as I saw it, and didn't make any effort to pursue friendships. Rather the opposite, actually; he seemed to tuck himself _away_ from people. It was surprising to realise at the end of first year that he had, in fact, nestled himself firmly between Hamphyn and Ipping. The three were a tight-nit group in the way that a knife, a fork and a spoon differ yet inevitably match one another. They just… fit. There wasn't any place for anyone else, as far as I could see it.

Yet other than his slight strangeness, his deviance from the expectations of just about everyone in the school, there was nothing particularly remarkable about him. Nothing that overtly drew me to the other boy. Nothing that would be beneficial to me in the long run, should I desire to pursue 'friendship'.

So I didn't attempt it. I didn't really need to, nor see what function such a relationship would serve. It's not like I avoided the other boy, but he was the sort of different that inevitably led to a scant exchange of words. I think we've maybe spoken about five times throughout our entire schooling year, and even then it was mostly in monosyllabic replies to short questions. Another reason why last night's… invitation was so unexpected.

It wasn't until the beginning of fourth year, however, that I firmly decided that no, it wouldn't be a good idea to be associated with Albus Potter, even on a professional level. I can pinpoint it to the exact date, the exact class even, in which I made my decision.

It was in our second week of first term. Divination. Ten minutes into the lesson.

Honestly, I'm not a Divination person. I don't know why I picked it, save for the fact that it was that or Ancient Runes and I could see no future benefits of studying extinct alphabets; at least in Divination I could study some of my other course work, given that the professor was well-known for her autonomous teaching style. It was that or fall to sleep, which I would never allow myself to do, not even in a class I despised. Which Divination was pretty close to coming.

Some people loved it, strangely enough, but I tend to think that those people walk a different road in life. One that wades through the bushes searching for pretty bugs rather than following the perfectly paved footpath.

Madame Verne was one such character, though I think she rather searched for dinosaurs and the extra-terrestrial than bugs. An eccentric that put the Scamanders to shame, she was apparently on par with her nutter of a predecessor and, according to Father, Trelawney was hard to beat. She always dressed in a headache-inducing clash of colours with her incredibly long hair worn in a ponytail so high that it fell over her face as much as it did down her back. She wore her nails ridiculously long to match and seemed to make a point of changing their colour for every lesson.

By the second week of school, I was already well and truly sick of Divination and Verne's eccentricity. Her voice was hollow and low in what I assume was her attempt to sound mysterious and all-knowing but instead gave her the impression of sounding on the verge of a coughing fit. I tended to tune it out and instead turned my attention to my History of Magic textbook, heaving the heavy tome to my bookmark halfway through. It was because of my distracted attention that I didn't notice when Potter and Hamphyn stumbled into the tower classroom, very obviously late, until Verne spoke.

"Ah, my dears, if there something the matter? Class has already started." Her voice was a little higher than the usual grumble, perhaps indignant that her students would _dare_ be late. "We were just beginning to review our dream diaries in a progression around the class. Please take a seat."

Both Potter and Hamphyn, still standing over the trap door into the room, stared at her blankly for a moment before the Slytherin girl turned towards her friend and blurted out a "Fuck, I forgot my diary!"

Verne visibly flinched at the cuss. "Miss Hamphyn, you will refrain from such –"

"Oh bloody hell, I forgot mine too. Actually, I don't even know where mine _is_."

By this point, every single person in the classroom was straightening on their floor cushions – as much as one _could_ straighten on floor cushions; whatever happened to good old-fashioned chairs? – and blinking incredulously at the two latecomers. The pair were well-known, alongside Ipping, for being silent both in and out of class, even under the direct questioning of a teacher. The fact that they'd both spoken quite loudly, and _cursed_ at that after _interrupting the professor_ , was astounding.

Verne looked on the verge of having a fit. "Mr Potter, Miss Hamphyn, you will cease the use of such language in my classroom at once! What abominable behaviour." The brightly clad woman swept an arm through the air in a slash as though such would serve to silence the pair of them.

It didn't.

"Terribly sorry, Madame, it just slipped out," Hamphyn apologised, her face an exaggerated wince that was more expressive than I'd ever seen it. "I was just so horrified at the thought that I'd _misplaced_ my diary before coming to class that I…"

She glanced towards Potter who was regarding her solemnly and nodding his head in agreement. It would have been comical it wasn't so bloody out of character. I found it altogether disconcerting to witness.

"Me too, Madame, me too. But don't… don't worry, 'cause I've got this covered." Potter raised both hands before him, as though cautioning Verne 'not to worry'. "I'm a whizz at remembering my dreams. Just ask Rhali."

It was Rhali's turn to nod fervently in agreement. Their faces were the picture of sincerity, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. I'm sure I wasn't the only one thrown for a loop. Verne seemed to be in the same boat as I, for her quickly sparked anger seemed to dissipate into confusion, then thoughtfulness. She still huffed in disgruntlement, however, and hitched her orange-knitted shawl more tightly around her shoulders. "You did not bring your diaries?"

"That's, you see, _that's_ what we're trying to _tell_ you, Madame," Hamphyn enunciated in words so fast that she nearly stumbled over herself. "But don't worry, I'm pretty good at remembering too, though Ally's better. Don't ask him to tell you about anything like past experiences or anything, 'cause he'll be able to tell you every detail down to the exact minute it happened." She shared a glance with Potter, who shrugged and nodded acknowledgement of the fact. "There was this one time when he went to Ireland when he was three –"

"- three and nine months and thirteen days."

"Yeah, three and nine months and thirteen days, and Ally says he was awake the whole ferry trip over 'cause you they wanted the Muggle experience of going by boat, you know, so they took the ferry. And there was this spider who was crawling on the bottom of his brother's bed –"

"- It only had five legs!"

"Five legs, _five_ , but it was still crawling fine, and it started to dig into the mattress –"

" – I tried telling James, 'cause he's terribly afraid of spiders – "

" – _terribly_ afraid, you have no idea, I mean, pissing his pants afraid –"

"Miss Hamphym, Mr. Potter, please!"

Verne wasn't the only one rocking back slightly in shock at the torrent of words. I personally had never heard Hamphyn or Potter speak so much in my entire life. I had to physically clamp my jaw shut from where it hung open; it was only slightly mollifying to notice that I wasn't the only one.

Swallowing and touching her index finger to her brow, Verne waved a hand towards the two now-silent and watchful disruptions. "You…" She seemed to struggle with what she wanted to say. I couldn't blame her. "You will both find a seats and hasten to write a description of at least one dream that will serve as your focus for this lesson." Clearing her throat, she seemed to reassert her control of herself once more. "You will bring me your dream diaries by this afternoon so that I may ensure you have conducted your assigned tasks appropriately. If you should fail to do so, you will both be seeing me for detention."

The pair nodded vigorously, Hamphyn even going so far as to proclaim "Of course, Madame, of course we did our homework. I love Divination. Always super keen for your classes." I had to bite back an incredulous snort at that. _So keen that you turn up late for the lesson_.

Verne ignored the comment, however, waving them to find their seats. They mumbled another string of nearly unintelligible words – the tone was gratuitous so I could only assume they were thanking her leniency – before moving towards where Ipping was already seated on an over-large, pink floor cushion at the very back of the room. Which just so happened to be right behind me.

They sunk into their seats on either side of him just as Jillian Wilkins continued reading aloud her dream from where she'd been interrupted. I don't know what it was about and hardly cared to listen. I _would_ have gone back to reading my momentarily neglected textbook, except for the not-quite-hushed exchange before me from the three 'silent' students. Almost compulsively I shifted my attention towards them, cocking an ear. Apparently I wasn't the only one either, for nearly half of the class were glancing over their shoulders with continued bafflement and more than a little shock. I doubted anyone could hear them, though; I was the closest and I could barely make them out myself.

Close enough to pick up most of the words, however.

"…can't believe you actually went and took them," Ipping hissed, and though his words were a reprimand they sounded more amused than scolding. "You're making bloody idiots of yourself." I'd never heard him speak much before, so the act of him actually _talking_ nearly overwhelmed me to the point that I didn't comprehend his words.

"Now, now," Hamphyn began loudly, before being hasty hushed by both Ipping and Potter. Half glancing over my shoulder I saw the girl clamp a hand dramatically over her mouth, her shoulders shaking slightly in suppressed giggles as her friends attempted to mute her loudness. When she continued a moment later, if was markedly quieter. "Now, don't be jealous. Ally and I saved you some and everything."

 _Really? Ally?_ I rolled my eyes as much at her tone as the ridiculous nickname for Potter.

"I'm not jealous," Ipping hissed back. "You two are just idiots for popping them _right before class_!"

Dropping my chin to pretend that I was concentrating on my book rather than the conversation behind me, I frowned. I didn't like the sound of that, and unless I was completely off the mark I had a very distinct suspicion as to the cause of Hamphyn and Potter's abrupt chattiness.

A suspicion that was confirmed a moment later when Potter spoke in a stage whisper.

"You _should_ be jealous. It's bloody fantastic; you have _no_ idea. I didn't think they even made Jojo Beans this clean. We took them nearly two hours ago and I'm _still_ buzzing just as strong."

I bit back a snarl at the words. Jojo Beans? Seriously? How did they even get their hands on them at _school_? I'm not a party-stopper or anything, but I do have my standards, and avoiding stimulants that can otherwise cloud the mind right before class is one of them.

Clamping my jaw more firmly, I resolutely tuned out the rest of their words, fixing my eyes on the pages of the history textbook and seeing but not reading. I shouldn't be surprised, really. No one had found evidence of the fact that the three used, not as far as I had heard, but it was common knowledge that they definitely did. This was just confirmation of a hypothesis that I'd already encountered.

It was the final nail in the lid of coffin of what could have potentially been a friendship between myself and the only Potter child I would consider approaching. He'd quickly dropped to the bottom of my list, actually. I think I'd rather try Lily, though I wasn't particularly inclined in that direction either.

I try to think that I'm not being derogatory for thinking that Potter, Hamphyn and Ipping are lesser, lower, than I for their drug habit. For habit that it is, I wouldn't expressly say it's a problem. Besides that one incident in Divination – an incident that apparently triggered extra precautions from them all in future situations – it never seemed to disrupt their learning. That one incident was unusual in more than the revelation of their superfluous taste for Jojo Beans; it was remarkably out of character for the three of them, even accounting for their high. They simply weren't disruptive _._ And while none are Outstanding students, they were far from the bottom of the rung.

They weren't aggressive, or intentionally disruptive. They didn't try to encourage or corrupt their fellow students. I think their natural exclusivity prevented as much; no one was close enough to them that the trio would offer, and they projected a elusiveness that immediately deterred anyone from expressly asking them should they seek to take a hit.

It's not a problem. Not really. Just… not how I'd spend my teenage years. I'd rather throw myself into my studies, making the most of the opportunity I've been given.

Biting into the last corner of my toast, I dusted my fingers on the plate. In the distance, just within the auditory range, I could make out the bell chiming. Seven o'clock. Which meant that more than the specking of bleary-eyed students that had somehow made their way into the Great Hall at dawn would shortly flood through the doors.

I rose from my seat. I was a little tired, admittedly, from only five hours of sleep last night, but I wouldn't let that slow me down. School was for studying, and seventh year especially so. I pushed thoughts of Potter, Hamphyn and Ipping from my mind, very forcibly thrust memories of the invitation along with it, and departed through the double doors.

The library would be open now. I'd put in the hard hours while I had the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you liked the chapter. Please leave a comment if you have the time. Thank you!


	4. You Never Know...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: References to recreational drug use - realistic and magical - in this chapter. If you don't like that sort of thing, probably best not to read.

_~Albus~_

I did _not_ want to leave the comforting cocoon of my blankets. Perhaps if I stayed really, really still, my housemates would overlook my continued presence in the dorms and leave me be. There was an unspoken agreement amongst us Hufflepuff boys – myself unwillingly included – that should one member oversleep then the others would be sure to wake him up before they left for breakfast. Unfortunately, though I never remembered participating in this consensus, my dutiful peers always take the time to include me in the consideration. But today, if I was really still…

Of course, then it hit me that it was Saturday, and I released a sigh of relief. Thank _God_ for that. The first week back to classes had been hell. No revision period for seventh years; such tedious recapping of the past terms content was expected to be done in our own time. No, we dove straight into the thick of things, with each Professor beginning their first classes of the year with "now pay attention, because this will most likely be in your N.E. ". As if we needed any more reminders.

I could be studying. I _could_ be. Though my body clock is slowly getting back into the swing of school hours, I have a suspicion that it may be later into the day than I had at first anticipated. I hadn't exactly thrown myself into studying with the vigour of some of my classmates, but I have the sense to know when I should tuck my chin and at least try to put in some effort.

It's just… the blankets are so warm, and I can smell the faint sweetness of my Harproot on my bedside table. Even unburned it released a pleasantly sweet scent that was naturally calming. It helps me sleep, actually; I've not had difficulty sleeping since Neville gave me the plant years ago.

The thought of my godfather brings a promise to mind and I feel a twinge of guilt that I'm lazing the day away without either A, studying, or B, trekking down to the greenhouses to help Neville nurture the new Salamander Sprouts. They were notoriously finicky, especially in the early days of their eruptions; it would be hard enough for Neville to handle half of the Sprouts and keep them crackling under a flame without the other half spluttering sparks in disgruntlement behind him.

With a heave, I pushed myself to sitting, rubbing my eyes with both hands to clear them from their grogginess. With one foot I kicked back the curtains surrounding my bed and let the morning – the _late_ morning – light do its job of waking me up the rest of the way. Sliding from the end of my bed and casting a hazy glance around myself, I was gratified to notice that I wasn't the only one who was revelling in the first sleep in of the year. Only Dillon was out and about, actually – to be expected; he's jumpier than a cricket, can hardly sit still for two moments. Ainsley was lazing in half-sitting, propped on his pillows and flicking through a book idly, but I suspected from the glazed sheen to his eyes that he was likely more asleep than awake. Of course Xander was still deeply embedded in the dream world; his curtains were half pulled around his bed. One foot stuck out from his blankets having drawn them open to let in a partial glare of light. He's a tosser and turner, that Xander; he couldn't lie still to save himself. Funny, considering how slow and mellow he was when awake.

Dressing in an old pair of jeans and t-shirt, I paused beside my collection of potted plants arranged atop and around my bedside. Half a dozen I've got now, and those just the ones I keep in my dormitory. I repossessed them from Neville within days of returning to school; they're my babies, and confident though I may be in Neville's ability to care for them, he can't possibly love them as much as _I_ do.

I cast a quick _Imberio_ charm over each of them, showering them with tiny droplets of untainted water. I may not be much for charms in general, but _gardening_ charms are something of a speciality for me. Call it a product of sufficient motivation, but I'm quite satisfied that I'm the only one in our year who can actually cast and interpret the readings of a soil composition charm. I guess the main reason is that no one else in my year really cares enough to learn how.

Still, it's gratifying to be good at _some_ aspect of actual magic. It's the most applicable anyway, in my books.

Departing from the common room after pausing to scratch a sleeping Caesar perched atop his cage, I swung by the kitchens before heading outside. Everyone in Hufflepuff is on a first name basis with most of the house elves, a result of our dorm room being so close, and I frequent there quite often. They made the best vegan tartlets, and one can never have too many apples handy.

I wandered out to the greenhouse crunching on one of many such pilfered fruits. The sun had already trekked a significant length across the sky, past midmorning, or there about. I suppose I'd overslept more than just a little. The grounds were already speckled with students enjoying the warm radiance of the autumnal sun. It wouldn't last long, not up here in Scotland. I'll most likely be making the most of it over the coming weeks too.

Neville was in the supply greenhouses when I finally found him, those out the back and strictly 'no students allowed' with a side note of 'except for those who know how to wield a spade'. They held the half-grown subjects that would be used in Herbology throughout the year. The Salamander Sprouts were for the sixth years, but they weren't equipped to handle them before they passed adolescence. There was more involved in caring for the sprouts than just setting them alight; one needed to know where to focus the fire, for how long, and the intensity of the flame, all variables that differed between individuals. It took a practiced eye to determine the signs of distress or intolerance in particular individuals, an eye that most sixth years seemed in adamant refusal to hone.

Neville was bending over a selection of the twitching plants as I watched, his worn coveralls already streaked with dirt and patches of darker colouration that looked suspiciously like burns.

"Morning, Neville."

"Oh, so you finally decided to join me, Albus?" Neville spare me a reproving glance but there was amusement in his tone that diverted possible suspicions of disgruntlement at my absence.

I offered a sheepish laugh. "Yeah, I had something I had to take care of this morning."

"And would that something be sleep?"

Opening the supplies cupboard, I tugged one of the coveralls from their hangers, unzipping the front to clamber into it. "Precisely. I'm a teenager. Sleep is very important for my growing brain."

Neville finally fully turned to regard me at that. A smirk quirked his lips, tugging at smile lines that were already streaked with dirt from the morning's work. "You keep telling yourself that, Al. There's such a thing as too much sleep."

"Never," I countered, stepping up to his side. I scanned the potted sprouts, mentally arranging them in order of those that most needed exposure to fire; they were paler, those ones, their short, thick stems a sickly yellow-green and a their tiny orange starburst leaves slightly drooping. I hesitated for a moment, chewing my lip before muttering a subdued, "sorry I'm late. It wasn't intentional."

"I know," Neville replied cheerfully. "No harm done, so long as you can give me a hand for a couple of hours. You'll just be my slave."

I shrugged. I wasn't even irked at the prospect. I couldn't think of a better enslavement, personally. "Sure. I'm yours for the rest of the day."

"No," Neville corrected, raising his wand from where he'd dropped it to his side. "I'll keep you till lunch. You should be studying."

"Really, Nev? First weekend back, and I should be studying already?"

"You can never be too prepared."

"There's such a thing as burning out. And working yourself up to torture."

Neville chuckled, shaking his head, but didn't object. "Till lunch." And he set to casting a steady flame over the palest of the sprouts. Fumbling to pull my own wand from my pocket – I probably should have disentangled it _before_ I clad myself in coveralls – I joined him.

It was, overall, quite relaxing, even with the occasional stop, drop and roll when a particularly dissatisfied sprout spurted a firework of sparks from the warm yellow centres of their flowers. It was quite funny, actually, watching Neville throw himself at the nearest water trough and nearly tumble inside to smother a conflagration up his arm. At least, it was funny until I followed his emergency procedure not half an hour later. Then he was laughing at my expense.

We work well together, my godfather and I. It's probably a result of having been gardening partners for years. I don't know if it was that I spent more time with Neville when I was younger or if it's just an innate fondness for greenery, but for as long as I can remember, whenever I visited Neville at his house the procedure would be a brief welcoming by his wife, Hannah, consuming the offered nibblies, and following Neville out into his garden. He was teaching me school coursework before I was eight years old.

A by-product of this love of Herbology – or botany, really. I'm honestly not exclusive, and there's quite an array of non-magical plants that take my interest. Two reside at my bedside– is that since fourth year I've been engaged in tertiary level studies. Not openly of course, but whenever I have a spare chance, or if Neville takes an interest in an unusual species that similarly sparks mine. I don't think anyone except Rhali and Ozzy know that I do so, actually. I would never tell anyone; not for any sense of humility, but because I already get enough comments about my overwhelming interest in Herbology to the exclusion of my other subjects. What can I say, plants just do it for me. It's probably the only subject that I'd willingly study, anyway.

We lost track of time a bit, setting fire to plants and watching them not-burn, but when the last of the sprouts had darkened to a deep green Neville cast a _Tempus_ charm and grinned in satisfaction.

"Perfect timing. Just finished for lunch." He took a step away from the rack of sprouts, wiping a hand over his head with the other secreted his wand in his pocket. He cast me a grateful glance. "Thanks for that, Al. You really helped me out."

I shrugged one shoulder, already unzipping my coveralls and nearly falling over myself as I stepped out of them. "'S okay. I quite enjoyed myself." I bent to pick up the crumpled, stained garment from the ground. "If you need help with anything else –"

"No no no no," Neville overrode me, stepping forward to relieve me of the coveralls. "You, kiddo, need to study. Your mum would have my head if you failed your N.E. because you spent to much time with me."

"What are you trying to say about my academic abilities, Nev," I pouted, feigning hurt. There was no 'trying'; my mediocre grades were common knowledge throughout the family and our network of friends. Throughout the entire Wizarding world, actually, but I tried not to think about that.

Neville gave me a fond smile. "You're not fooling anyone, Al. I know all about your marks; teachers talk, you know." He reached forward and ruffled my hair. "But I also know that you're bloody intelligent when you put your mind to it. Got a good head on your shoulders."

"I think we might be exaggerating here a little," I replied. Yeah, I'm not an idiot, but I'm realistic enough to know my limits.

"I'm serious," Neville persisted, and he did sound it. The smile had slipped from his face and he had adopted an intense frown, the likes of which always made me uncomfortable to be the subject of. Light-hearted banter is fine, but bring up any sort of deep and meaningful topic and without a stash of Calming Draughts I turn into a jittery mess. Neville overlooked my slight step backwards, however, nodding to himself. "Yeah, you might not be ace in your theory, but I know you can nail practicals when you put your mind to it."

"That's just for Herbology," I muttered, looking down at my feet.

"What about potions?"

"You know I suck at –"

"The theory, yeah. Your essay-writing skills could use a little work." The crooked smile Neville gave me eased my awkwardness slightly. Or enough for me to stop avoiding his gaze, anyway. "But Yeong was raving about your Sleep Meister Potion last year. And Weatherwell says you've a hand for organic transfiguration when you stop second guessing yourself."

I didn't reply. The suggestion that Weatherwell knew of my 'second guessing' was discomforting enough. I shifted my feet, fidgeting in an attempt to halt a hasty retreat.

Thankfully, Neville appeared to have reached the end of his pep talk. He gave a thoughtful hum, almost a sigh, before ruffling my hair again. "Enough of that, though. I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. Go on, off with you."

And that was it. My freedom was afforded. I gave my godfather a poor attempt at a smile, murmured something that could have been construed as a "see you later", and fled. I'm never eager to leave the greenhouses, but I can't say that I wasn't sort of happy to be heading back into the comforting unobtrusiveness of the castle.

A quick shower back at the Basement – I don't know how it happened when I was barely touching them, but somehow I managed to get dirt all over me. Just on the hands and face, of course, what with the coveralls taking the brunt of it – before heading down for some lunch. I'd just relieved the Hufflepuff table of most of its carrot sticks and a bowl of hommus when Rhali approached me.

We don't speak in public, Rhali, Ozzy and I. Not unless directly spoken to. It was never a deliberate decision on any of our parts, but just sort of happened. I don't know why; call it a product of our communal weirdness, but there's something about opening my mouth and speaking my thoughts where others can hear me that freaks me out a little. I'm not trying to be a snob or anything. It just is.

So when Rhali approached me and paused, she didn't say anything. She simply halted in her step long enough to catch my eye and jerked her head towards the doors of the Great Hall, raising an eyebrow as she did so.

The gesture could have meant anything to someone who didn't know Rhali. But I knew her, and everything I needed to hear was spoken from her body language. It was as clear to me as if she said the words aloud. To me, she very clearly said _"I'm heading to the library to study Charms. I could use a hand. Join me please?_ " Or, well, maybe the please was pushing it a bit, but that's it in essence. It could have been Defence that she was asking help for, except Rhali's piss-poor at Charms compared to her slightly better grasp of Defence, and she only ever asked for help in the former.

I tilted my head in a nod of affirmation, and spared her half a glance to notice she swung by the Gryffindor table and conducted a similarly silent exchange with Ozzy before leaving. I nibbled on the last of my carrot sticks and swiping a slice of pita bread from the other end of the table before departing for the library.

Neville was right about one thing, at least. I was pretty horrendous with theory; my practical marks were all that pulled me through in some of my classes. And though I might be better than Rhali at Charms, I could still use all the help I could get.

It was time for my friends and I to pool our collectively appalling efforts.

* * *

It was not the best weekend I've ever had. In fact, I'd put it up there with being one of the worst, simply because it was the _very first_ weekend back to school and I'd spent the entire time except for the few hours with the Salamander Sprouts revising old coursework. In retrospect, I probably should have completed it before coming back to school – what had I even been doing over the summer break? – but that's the beauty of hindsight, I suppose.

On the plus side, I did manage to finish my reviews, and made marked headway on the half a dozen essays seventh year had already been assigned this term. Or, well… I started them anyway, even if it was just an introductory paragraph. It left me feeling productive enough that, when Neville apologetically caught me after dinner and asked if I could swing by to retrieve some ingredients to deliver to Yeong 's office, I didn't feel guilty about skiving off the rest of the night.

It wasn't like I really had any intention of studying anyway, but it's always good to delude oneself sometimes.

Wandering down into the dungeons with a trail of Neville's tightly wrapped packages dancing in the air behind me, I turned around the last corner towards Yeong's quarters only to pause and backpedal a moment later. Feeling no compunction against eavesdropping whatsoever – there's only so many exploits a person could pull off with an invisibility cloak before such qualms eventually disappeared entirely – I turned my head on its side and peered around the corner. The two figures stationed halfway down were talking with intense seriousness; the ambiance was almost visibly suspended in the air. My dad's cloak would have been useful right about now. It was a shame it was Lily's week of having it in possession.

One of figures was Professor Yeong. He's a short bloke, trim and with a shaved head that he seems to be compensating for with an overly long, pointed black beard. He never wore a hat to cover his baldness, or at least to keep his brains warm, but otherwise looked the picture of an oriental wizard of old with long, flowing robes that fell over his hands in richly embroidered folds of crimson and black and a thick belt wrapped tightly around his waist that came stretched up to mid-chest.

I have always found Yeong to be one of the most friendly of the professors, something that made my dad raise his eyebrows and wonder aloud wistfully at how different the current professor was to that of the past. I guess he wasn't thinking about how the apparent bastard of a professor was my namesake, because I doubt he would have said as much if he had been. But dad wasn't the only one to comment on Yeong's adeptness as the resident Potions Master. Not only was he reportedly far more amiable than Snape had been during his term, but he was also significantly better at teaching than his predecessor Slughorn had been. The current students have that much to be thankful for, at least. I often have to wonder at the proficiency of some of the past teachers at Hogwarts; from what I've heard, half of them sounded on their way to madness while the majority didn't have even basic training in education.

Thank God times have changed.

Talking to Yeong was a tall blonde that I couldn't momentarily identify as he had his back to me. The precision of his immaculately combed hair gave him away, however, and my suspicions were confirmed when Scorpius Malfoy's voice drifted into my ears.

"… do what I must if I require extra credit, though I understand I'm asking a lot."

Yeong was shaking his head sagely, an almost sorrowful cast to his expression. "You hardly need extra credit, Malfoy. That's not my concern."

"Then… I don't…"

It was strange, hearing Scorpius' broken words. He sounded like almost childlike, baffled by a situation he wasn't prepared for. I would have felt sorry for him if I had more investment in the guy himself. As it stood, I hardly knew him except that he was a prefect, was the only rival of Rose's for top of the, and he stuck to the rules like gum to the underside of a desk. A bit, no, a _lot_ of a perfectionist, to the point of obsessive compulsive, and he wasn't above attempting to raise people to his standards of excellence. Admirable, I suppose, if it weren't for the fact that he appeared rather put out when classmates failed to live up to his expectations.

I'd barely spoken two words to Scorpius throughout our entire schooling career. He could have been the nicest person around, but we just moved in such different circles and at such different paces that the opportunity never really cropped up. Besides, I got the impression that he was probably the sort of person that saw himself as above me a little bit, if not for my marks than for my recreational pursuits. I couldn't see Scorpius Malfoy as being the sort of person to take a break, kick up his feet, and pop a couple of Sparkies or smoke some Harproot, however interesting such a situation might seem to me. He was always a bit rigid, the sort of person who didn't seem able to let himself relax or show the slightest wavering of his iron-hard persistence.

Which was why his wavering words were so unexpected.

Yeong didn't look surprised at Scorpius' response, however. Instead, his expression saddened a little further, just slightly. "There is nothing wrong with your grades, Malfoy. You're an exemplary student; you _know_ you topped the class last year."

"Then why…?"

"I'm merely questioning your apparent change of heart," Yeong continued, his voice soft and soothing in that way he had that immediately settled a classroom of babbling students. "Until last year you were always so enthusiastic about potions. I felt sure you would have pursued a career in Potioneering, or at least a sub-study of magical experimentation. Yet I can't help but notice… do you perhaps not enjoy studying the art any longer?"

Even from where I stood, I could see the tension in Scorpius' back, tightening the spread of black robes across his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice had steadied, but there was a distinct lack of emotion in his tone. "It's not a matter of enjoying, Professor, I assure you. I _do_ still enjoy potions, but…" Scorpius paused, and I fathomed that I could see him swallow, steel himself, and continue. "I have realised that the study of potions will not overly contribute to my future career."

Yeong raised an eyebrow at that. "Not contribute? There is a wide range of professions in the Wizarding world, and even in the Muggle world these days, that support potions studies." Yeong's face slowly settled into a thoughtful frown. "If you don't mind me asking, Malfoy, upon which path do you attempt to set yourself upon graduation?"

Scorpius shifted slightly from foot to foot, a motion that struck me slightly as, well… I'm not saying that I know Scorpius or anything, not at all, but it seemed very unlike something he would do. He didn't seem like the nervous, fidgeting type. "I intend to follow my father into the ministry, Professor."

Yeong's face cleared, as though comprehension suddenly dawned. "Ah, I see. But of course. You have already determined that is definitely the route you intend to take?"

"Yes, sir," Scorpius replied with a nod of his head. "I think following my father into his business it is the most suitable career path for me."

"Suitable, Malfoy?" Yeong tilted his head, considering the young man before him. "What of your personal preferences? Is becoming a businessman a path you are truly eager to set yourself upon?"

Again Scorpius shifted. "I… It's what I've chosen, Professor. And I've… I've already made plans. I know where I'm heading. The foundations have already been laid for my, erm…"

"Step into the intricate webs of economic life?" Yeong supplied with another sad smile.

Scorpius bowed his head, avoiding the Potions professor's gaze. "Something like that, sir."

"I see," Yeong sighed, and he did genuinely seem to understand. Another good thing about Yeong; he wasn't pushy, even, for instance, in the face of obvious excuses for a lack of homework. "Well, if that is truly your choice, Malfoy, I can only a agree it is an apt decision. But remember," and he paused long enough to urge Scorpius to slowly raise his head and meet his gaze. "Not everything is set in stone. You don't _have_ to continue such a pursuit if your tastes lead you elsewhere in future. You never know, in five, ten years time, your love of potions may rekindle. You have always been so adept at it."

It could have been my imagination, but to me it sounded like Yeong was suggesting something slightly different to what his words pronounced. Scorpius didn't reply, so perhaps he thought the same. That, or he was just lost in mulling over Yeong's words.

"If that is all?" Yeong finally spoke up, his expression clearing with a very deliberate 'put this issue aside' motion.

Startling slightly, Scorpius raised his head. His nod was a little stilted, as though distracted. "Yes, I… yes, professor. Thank you for your time."

"Not at all, Malfoy. If you have any further thoughts, please see me. I would be more than happy to discuss them with you, regardless of their nature." Which, I considered, was a bit of a strange offer seeing as Yeong wasn't Scorpius' head of house or anything. But then who was I to judge?

As Scorpius slowly begun to turn, I had the realisation that, yeah, Scorpius had finished his discussion and was now turning to leave. In the direction I was eavesdropping.

Which could be quite incriminating.

Taking the bull by the horns rather than allowing it to charge at me head on, I attempted to adopt a casual stance and rounded the corner, dragging my levitating packages behind me. At my appearance, both Yeong and Scorpius eyed me with varying degrees of surprise.

"Potter? Was there something that you needed?"

Doing my best to ignore Scorpius' fixed, unblinking and faintly accusing stare, I walked straight up to Yeong and swung the dozen packages into the air before him. "Professor Longbottom asked me to bring these to you, sir. The Mock-gingeroot and scatterseeds that you asked for. The supplies for the Healthy-and-Hail as well, I think."

Yeong's face brightened as though I were giving him a Christmas gift. "Ah, wonderful! My thanks, Potter. Most kind of you to bring them to me."

"'S okay, professor," I replied with a shrug. Yeong nodded an acknowledgement, cast a levitating spell. He scooped the packages from my magical grasp and in an instant swept from the hallway and disappeared into his office. The door creaked slightly in his wake before softly clicking shut.

Turning back the way I'd come, I startled to a stop as I was confronted with the blank expression of Scorpius Malfoy and his disconcerting, unblinking stare. I don't know why it surprised me that he was there – maybe just that he was _still_ there – but those thoughts rapidly faded as curiosity took their place. I felt a frown crinkle my forehead as I studied his countenance.

I'd not seen much of Scorpius since our rather spontaneous midnight confrontation, but he seemed to have changed since then, even in such a short time. He looked tired, wilted almost, like one of the Salamander Sprouts that hadn't spent enough time under the fire. He was still perfectly groomed, down to the last, closely cropped hair on white-blonde head. His robes were smooth and free of any indication that he had been wearing them all day, and yet there was something about his face that seemed worn. A weariness in his pale eyes, slight, dark rings smudging beneath them. He was maybe a little paler than usual, if possible, his angular features prominent and skin nearly translucent, though it was hard to tell in the dungeons and I wouldn't call myself an expert on what was deemed healthy Malfoy pallor. There was a slight hunch to his shoulders too, however, that seemed only restrained by the persistent tension along his neck.

Scorpius appeared to be studying me just as intently, and obviously wasn't as comfortable with silences as I was, for after an awkward pause he grumbled, "What?"

Dropping my gaze, I shrugged a shoulder. It's not like I particularly wanted to talk to him or anything but, well, he'd spoken first, so I guess he had technically initiated conversation. "Nothing, just… Are you alright?"

From beneath lowered lashes I saw the annoyance on Scorpius' face shift into surprise, then confusion. "What? What do you mean?"

Another shrug and I raised a hand to pick awkwardly at my hair. "Nothing particularly. Only that you kind of look like shit."

That probably wasn't the best thing to say to a prefect – he could hand out detentions, after all – but it was true nonetheless. And apparently that truth resonated with Scorpius enough that detentions were far from his mind.

He stared at me with a mixture of continued confusion and rising incredulity. Slowly, his face seemed to sag slightly; almost imperceptibly, really, and would have been unnoticeable in its final form except that I watched it appear.

Scorpius offered his own shrug, a bunching of tight shoulders. "It's nothing. I'm fine, I just…"

Even those few words struck something in me. He didn't wave them off, didn't scowl at me or accuse me of being intrusive, that if he wanted to talk to someone of his concerns then he'd go to his friends. It might have been my imagination, but he looked one second more of classical Malfoy pomp away from rubbing his forehead wearily and slumping against the nearest wall.

He looked… tired. And strained. And unhappy.

"You look like you need a break."

Scorpius snorted, but there wasn't any malice in the sound and it seemed mostly self-directed. "It's only first week back. I _don't_ need a break."

"Technically second," I replied. "And it doesn't matter how early into term it is. You keep pushing yourself too hard and you'll wind up knee deep in the mud and burnt out. You've gotta take it easy every now and then."

Raising an eyebrow, Scorpius eyed me with a renewed sense of interest. I might have been insulted by that, by the insinuation that he hadn't really been all that interested in what I had to say in the first place, but I wasn't. I was more disconcerted that he was taking any more interest in me at all. "What, like you?"

I frowned. _That_ rubbed me the wrong way. I pursed my lips. "Yeah, maybe a bit more like me. All I know is that you look bloody miserable, and it's a downer to those around you. And I don't spend that much time with you, so if I'm feeling it's effects they must be pretty strong."

Scorpius seemed to deflate at each of my words until even his shoulders were sagging, slightly more heavily than before. I felt kind of guilty for that. His chin dropped and he looked to be having difficulty keeping his head from falling off to roll on the floor. As such, maybe his next words shouldn't have come as such as surprise, but they did. "I know, I'm just… I've got a lot of things on my mind right now."

Maybe it was just the confessionary attitude of his approach. I don't think I actually expected him to reply.

I nodded acceptingly, though, much like I imagine a priest would. I could understand that, at least. Seventh year and Prefect duties aside, Scorpius seemed to be putting a marked emphasis upon considering exactly where he'd be at this time next year. I felt almost sorry for the guy.

It was that stray thought that triggered it, I think. I have absolutely no idea why I said what I did next and I doubt I'll ever fully comprehend what waggled my tongue, but before I realised what I was saying the words were already out of my mouth. "You need to chill out a bit, mate. Seriously. I mean… hold on, you're not doing anything right now, are you?"

Slowly raising his head, Scorpius regarded me with weary confusion. "Now?"

"Yeah, now."

"Well, I should probably finish my Transfiguration essay…"

I rolled my eyes, releasing an exasperated sigh. "The transfiguration essay that's not due for another two weeks?" _The one I haven't even started yet?_ "Nope, that's it. Come on, come with me."

Beckoning him with a flick of my fingers, I strode past Scorpius in the direction of the stairwell. It took a moment, but hesitantly, almost warily, Scorpius' footsteps followed after me.

"Took your bloody time, Ally," was, predictably, the first words from Rhali's mouth. The next, equally predictable, were, "Holy _fuck_ , what's he doing here?"

Honestly, I was asking myself the same thing. A sideways glance at Scorpius suggested he was considering a similar question. We hadn't spoken a word to each other since leaving the dungeons. I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty certain he was regretting following me.

I _really_ don't know what possessed me to invite him along to the Niche. I'm not the type to initiate any substantial degree of contact with those outside my family and closest friends. The fact that I'd urged _Scorpius Malfoy_ , scion of the Malfoy family and all round Outstanding student, to my little pot-hole was mind-boggling.

What was almost as astounding was that said scion had actually followed me. Maybe he was just too tired to object – he certainly looked it; what lengths did someone have to go to become so exhausted after only one week of school? – but surely he wasn't so out of it that he didn't notice where we were going. I mean, Scorpius had been the one to spring us in the middle of the night not seven days ago, and I'm not naïve or stupid enough to think that he might have misunderstood what we were doing.

Resolutely setting aside my flurry of confusion and sound internal reprimands of, " _What the bloody hell were you thinking, Al?"_ I offered Rhali a scathing, hopefully-silencing glare. "Scorpius is just looking for a place to wind down for a bit. You have an objection, Rhali?"

My friend's eyebrows crept up to her hairline, disappearing beneath her tangled fringe. Her incredulity, however, was short lived and shifted to amusement as she turned her full attention onto Scorpius. I sincerely hoped Scorpius didn't realise it for what it was, because I can't imagine he would have stood for being the trigger of such a derogatory response.

Which led me to wondering why I felt that. Maybe my subconsciousness felt even more sorry for Prefect Perfect than even my conscious self did. I wouldn't be surprised. The longer I kept my eyes subtly trained on Scorpius the more unhealthy he looked.

Rhali's not a mean person. Not really, when you get past her biting exterior. And while, as with Ozzy and I, she tends to keep her mouth closed in public, set her before a huddle of precocious first years or a prefect isolated from the hoards of seventh years and she felt no such restraint. I'd seen it before, her abrupt change in attitude, and it was exactly the same in this instance.

"Well, so long as I don't end up getting detention for it, I couldn't care less." Leaning back slightly, Rhali folded her arms and ran her eyes up and down Scorpius in an almost professionally detached assessment. "Yeah, I can see why you brought him along. Come on, then," she said as though she bloody owned the place.

Without pause, Rhali reached forwards and fastened her hands in claw-like grasps around both Scorpius' wrist and mine. Scorpius flinched, seeming on the verge of yanking himself from her holdfast, but reacted too slowly for an instant later we were both tugged into the Niche. It was a near thing that we didn't end up on the floor for the stumbling mess the three of us made at our entrance.

Ozzy, folded into the double sofa, peered at us curiously with one arm slung over the back of the seat. His lips quivered slightly, as though he found the scene nothing if not amusing, and shook his head. "Have you picked up a stray puppy, Al?"

Ignoring the way Scorpius froze and seemed to bristle at Ozzy's words, I turned by scathing glare upon the Gryffindor boy instead. "Shut your trap, Ozzy. I invited him, so if you have a problem with it I'm withholding your share." Which sufficed to silence any further comment from him.

Falling into the seat beside Ozzy, I watched in suppressed amusement as Rhali prodded Scorpius to the single arm chair. It was quite gracious of her, really. I wouldn't have been surprised had she claimed the single seat for herself and forced Scorpius to find a spot on the rug. As Scorpius settled himself gingerly in the seat, I resolutely decided to do little more than ignore his presence and carry on as I otherwise would. It's not like I needed to change my habits just because Mr Prefect was here. If he had a problem with my behaviour, he could leave. I didn't particularly care, regardless of the fact I'd brought him here. So long as he didn't bring the professors down on our heads, that was.

Ozzy slumped against my shoulder heavily, stretching his long legs out before him. I elbowed him back as I idly dug my fingers into my pockets. "You actually get any work done after we left you at dinner?"

"Nope," Ozzy said with a cheerful sigh. "I added a tasteful border to my report on Selkie skins, though. Hagrid should give me points for effort in that area, at least."

"Ozzy, you have no artistic abilities whatsoever," Rhali informed him, dropping down onto the rug and crossing her legs.

"Hey, I resent that."

"It's true," I agreed, patting his shoulder in commiseration. "Don't worry, though. I'm sure your true potential will show itself some day. Just probably not through art."

"Or essay writing."

"Or giving speeches."

"Or anything that remotely requires a balancing skills."

"Or competitiveness."

"Or –"

"Alright, you two, give me a break," Ozzy moaned. Rhali and I shared a grin. "It's only first week back –"

"Second," I interjected.

"- and I don't need you telling me that my life will amount to nothing because I lack any noteworthy skills. Seventh year is depressing enough, thank you very much."

"Aw, did we hurt you fweelings," Rhali teased, sticking out her bottom lip and adopting an expression of very obviously false concern. Ozzy pulled a cushion from beneath him and lobed it at her. She caught it neatly and promptly sat on it.

"If it helps, I've got something that will make you feel better." Finally sorting through the scraps of discarded parchment, cuttings of greenery, apples and broken quills nibs – I should never have asked Rose to give me bottomless pockets – I held up a foil wrapped parcel and with a raised eyebrow. I resolutely ignored the slow frown that settled on Scorpius' face. _Leave if you have a problem with it. I'm not stopping you,_ I thought, and it must have been loud enough because I swear he flinched.

Ozzy shifted towards me from his slouch and Rhali straightened slightly. "What is it?" Rhali asked curiously.

I smiled between my friends. "I've fixed it."

"Fixed what?" Rhali demanded, folding her arms indignantly. She hated when I dangled the bait over her head, which only made me more prone to doing so.

"Oh, is that…?" A slow, delighted smile spread across Ozzy's face. I nodded vigorously. "It doesn't trip you into blubbering in Gaelic anymore?"

"Nope," I replied, quite pleased with myself.

"Oh, you fixed your Happy Gum?" Rhali's indignation disappeared in her own delight. "Gimme, gimme! I so need it right now, honestly, I _need_ it."

I snorted, unwrapping the foil. Of course I'd give her some, and not just because Sunday night get togethers were as much a tradition as the first night back at school. Rhali would pin me down to the floor and sit on me until I did so otherwise. She might be rangy, but that girl could bring down an elephant if she put her mind to it.

"Happy Gum? What, no Jojo Beans?"

I paused in my unwrapping and lifted my eyes towards Scorpius. Rhali and Ozzy turned towards him tandem, blinking in surprise as though they'd honestly forgotten he was here. Scorpius sounded a mixture of sceptical and, oddly, curiosity.

For a moment I didn't understand the reference. Jojo Beans? I hadn't taken Jojo Beans since… I felt my face flush brightly and raised a hand to cover my eyes, ducking my head in an attempt to cover my embarrassment. _Oh God, third year._ That was one of the most _embarrassing_ experiences of my life. Any reminder was actively avoided.

Ozzy evidently realised the significance of the statement too, for he started snickering beneath his breath. Rhali caught on a moment later. Embarrassed, however, she was not. "Jojo Beans are a thing of the past, Scorpius, believe me. I wouldn't take anything that Ally didn't give me."

"Ally?" I wasn't sure if he was commenting on the nickname or on Rhali's statement as a whole.

Rhali nodded, assuming the latter. "You don't know half of what goes into that commercial stuff nowadays. Probably barely a trace of purity in them. Ally, his stuffs clean, and none of that crap that'll send you spiralling over the edge or waking up in a ditch somewhere with half your face dripping off. His stuff's tops."

"Except when it makes you speak Gaelic," Ozzy muttered, still chortling. The cushion from beneath Rhali's bum came sailing across the room once more to smack him on the head.

"Yeah, but he fixed that, didn't you, Ally? 'S'all good now?"

I nodded, but didn't get a reply in before Scorpius spoke once more. "It made you speak Gaelic? What is this gum, exactly?"

I, personally, would have rather kept silent on the matter, but when Rhali gets to talking she's a hard one to stop. I got the impression she's almost proud of me for my products; like a clucking mother preening over their son's good grades. "Ally grew it himself. Nothing like it on the market, or at least nothing that doesn't give you a downer on the other end." She paused to give Scorpius a very serious, very pointed stare. "His stuff's the best."

I felt a flush revisit my cheeks for an entirely different reason this time and fiddled unnecessarily with the foil package. But if I felt a little flicker of pride at her confidence, well, who can blame me? Even if it is only the only thing Rhali truly recognises me for is my ability to grow a bloody good drug. Hard love, she gives.

"You grew it yourself?" Again, Scorpius sounded more curious than accusatory. Still, I only nodded reluctantly.

Ozzy elbowed me jovially. "What do you think he spends all his time in the greenhouses for?"

"Ozzy!" I exclaimed, reaching up to cuff him across the back of the head. He ducked from my swing, eyes widening and hands rising either side of him as if to ask 'what?' Like he didn't know!

Scorpius' pale, perfectly plucked eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. "In the greenhouses?" He sounded horrified, and his face wore the expression perfectly. "And Longbottom? Does he –?"

"No," I assured him, shaking my head adamantly. "Neville does _not_ grow drugs on campus."

"Unless you count Blackeye berries, but Yeong uses their leaves for potions," Rhali amended. As though that titbit was even relevant.

Scorpius still looked faintly horrified, but at least now he didn't seem on the verge of either passing out or having a fit. He shook his head slightly, as though questioning the very idea itself. A moment later, however, he continued. "You know, you could get expelled for growing illegal substances at school."

Ozzy, Rhali and I exchanged glances. Yes, in fact, we did know. Not to mention that word of such a deliberate breaking of rules would be plastered all over the media. I could see it now: 'SCHOOL SCANDAL – POTTER'S BOY UNDERCOVER DEALER?' Yeah, I could see that going down well. It left me feeling a bit nauseous when I thought about it so, naturally, I chose not to think about it.

Rhali was waving her hand towards Scorpius' in a clear gesture of disregard. "Whatever, how many years has it been and we haven't gotten caught?" She raised an eyebrow at me questioningly but didn't await a reply. "Besides, this is our last year. I'll stick with our chances of slipping under the radar if it means I've got something that will help me get through the exams. Pretty sure we're safe. Unless…" Rhali narrowed her eyes at Scorpius, " _someone in particular_ chose to wag his tongue like a preschool tattle-tale."

Surprisingly, rather than get offended, Scorpius only snorted. "You do realise that the entire school knows you at least use and they've unanimously decided to keep your secret hidden?"

"Yeah, we sort of got that impression," Ozzy acknowledged, appearing far too satisfied with the prospect as he slumped back in his seat. "Huzzah for teen conspiracy."

Scorpius snorted again, but didn't continue, and concluding that the conversation had apparently reached a natural close I finished unwrapping the Happy Gum. A folded sliver of tough, blue leaf unravelled itself into a ribbon as soon as the packaging was removed, which I set about bending and snapping into four pieces. Ozzy and Rhali took theirs immediately, Rhali nearly taking it from my hand with her teeth. When I held out a piece to Scorpius, however, he only regarded me wryly.

"Really?"

I shrugged, holding back the urge to glare at him for the condescension in his tone. _Yes, really, you tosser._ "Suit yourself. You don't have to, but I'd reckon you'd probably appreciate it." I lifted myself slightly from my seat, reaching out to place it on the arm of his chair.

Scorpius shifted away from the absolutely harmless and unintimidating piece of leaf as though it was a venomous spider. "You think so." It wasn't a question. "And how, exactly, would you know?"

Rhali answered for me, nearly spitting as she attempted to enunciate around the chewed piece of leaf. Her lips were tinged slightly purple. "Because, oh regal Prefect, sir, it makes you happy – duh – and _you_ look absolutely miserable."

Her words were so exasperated that Scorpius seemed to skip right past affronted and onto thoughtfulness. He cast another glance at the leaf beside him. "What is it, exactly?"

"It's gum," Ozzy supplied redundantly, holding up his own piece as though in demonstration before folding it into his mouth.

"Yes, as you have said."

"It's a hybrid," I explained, bending the leaf between my fingers to make it more flexible. I'd… practiced a little, in my own time, and knew that it was easier to chew that way. "I spliced a Tipsy Toes with a _Miscanthus_ subspecies. It didn't work out so well at the beginning –"

"The unexpected linguistic repercussions?"

"Yeah, that. And before you ask, I have no idea why it's gaelic of all things. But I was experimenting with it over the summer a bit and fixed it up. Brought some seeds with me; they grow like troopers if you manage to balance the soil pH right. Not too much salinity and all that jazz."

Scorpius regarded me with an expression that I couldn't quite work out. "You… spliced the plants? And grew them yourself."

Rhali giggled – obviously the effects of the gum were already setting in – and offered my a sympathetic glance. "The disbelief is heartbreaking, Malfoy. So little faith in our Ally?"

I ignored that comment and set about to working myself into my Happy place.

I'm not sure if Scorpius replied. The immediate effects of my Happy Gum are a little like getting your tongue lathered in paint stripper. It's achingly sour in a way that brings tears to the eyes, but only for about three seconds before it disappears to a really, _really_ tasteful citrusy flavour. I've grown quite fond of it actually. But better than that, it hits fast and lasts long, so within moments I felt myself rising on the induced effects of an alternate sort of high.

My plants, the ones that we use for recreational purposes, are very specific in what they induce. I'm utterly avoidant of negative side effects – experimenting with Muggle products in fourth year turned me off ever using a needle or directly smoking a joint again, _ever_ – and even those that cause arguably neutral effects I tend to steer clear of. I'm all about safety in my drug habits.

Happy Gum is a little like Harproot in that it doesn't wrap your mind up in a blanket, tip it upside down and shake your brains until every last piece of loose change tumbles from your pockets. None of that 'off-your-face' mindlessness of ECE that's doing the rounds in the Wizarding world at the moment, nor ice that makes its appearance in Muggle clubs – I never drifted anywhere near meth; nasty stuff – but instead gives one a rather profoundly positive outlook. It's sort of like being on one of those exhaustion-induced highs where everything seems funny, except it lacks the actual tiredness.

Sure, initially I'd had some problems. Thankfully, Tipsy Toes, when harvesting from the leaves rather than the roots, completely avoids the crash that is a common side effect of many potions it's used in. It does, however, unfortunately have a rather extended effect, up to several days at a time, that is not only exhausting but a little counterproductive. There's such a thing as too much positivity; there's no way to get _anything_ done by simply brushing aside reminders with 'don't worry about it, I'll get round to it'. Because you won't. You really, really won't.

Well, that and the unexpected and, as far as I can tell, largely inexplicable inducement of Gaelic-speaking capacities to the exclusion of the English language. I have no idea what that was about.

So I dulled the effects by splicing it with a non-magical _Miscanthus_. It took a couple of different tries, but I found the perfect combination eventually. The result? Happy Gum. The Gaelic problem was still an issue until I magically stabilised it over the summer, but other than that it's just about perfect. It only lasts for a few hours at most too, and serves as a great pick-me-up after enduring soul-crushing hours of study.

I felt a smile spreading across my face as lightness flooded my chest. N.E. ? Not a problem right now; they're months down the track. Potentially failing Astronomy again? Not an issue, I'll just study a little harder this time. The very real possibility that Scorpius Malfoy turns out to be a _complete_ wanker and turns us over to Weatherwell? Whatever, at least we had fun while it lasted. I was still in my right mind enough to know that I'd probably have a bit of a problem looking for work after being expelled from school, not to mention the effects of the media, but it was easy enough to bat away. It's not like it's happened yet or anything, and turning towards Scorpius and his considering gaze as he listened to something Rhali was fervently spouting, I felt reassured that such an eventuality wouldn't come to pass.

"You know what?" Ozzy muttered, his expression thoughtful and eyes drifting towards the far wall as he propped an elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin on his palm. "I could actually be an athlete. Maybe not a team player, but still."

"What makes you say that?" I asked, lifting my legs to tuck them more comfortably beneath me on the couch. I was in a good enough mood now to humour Ozzy's random contemplation.

"Well, you know I used to go hiking when I was a kid?"

"Why does that not surprise me? Your mum's a gung-ho, pro-environmental activist who can't sit still to drink a cup of coffee."

"Ma doesn't drink coffee, actually," Ozzy muttered, his expression still considering. "But I'm serious. Maybe I should just try something different? It's not like I'm particularly good at anything in school, but there must be something I can do. Just haven't found it yet."

"You're not that bad at school," I offered. "You're better than me at Charms."

"A lot of people are better than you at Charms, Al, with the exception of Rhali."

"You're better than me at transfiguration, too. And I'm actually alright at that one."

"Yeah, maybe," Ozzy nodded slowly, scratching his chin. "But you guys were right about what you said earlier. I'm not great at classwork like writing essays or public speaking, and I don't even have the practical down pat like you do a lot of the time. And don't have any other particular skills or anything; I'm not a great artist like Julia or anything."

"It's not like you're terrible," I assured him.

"I know," Ozzy grinned, accepting the compliment probably a little more readily than it was offered. "But everyone else's attempts look kind of like a toddler's finger painting next to Julia Thomas'."

"It's called abstract, Ozzy. It's all the rage now."

"You know, I think that's probably what it is. Here, I'll show you." And, because I was in an open-minded mood, I sat forward slightly in my seat as Ozzy leant over his bag beside his feet and fumbled for his report. He unrolled it and held it before himself like a proud pre-schooler showing his parents yet another doodle he'd spent hours making look exactly the same as his last scribble.

"What are they supposed to be?" I asked, squinting slightly to try and make out the scratching of shapes in black ink around Ozzy's equally unintelligible scratching of words.

"They're all different water animals, see? I've got my Selkie here," he pointed to a blob, "a hippocampus here," another blob, "and this one is a sea serpent," that one actually looked a bit like it, but mostly because it was basically just a squiggly line, "and they're all in waves and such…"

"Well, I would certainly classify it as abstract," I offered, and Ozzy beamed as though I'd paid him an outright compliment this time. Bless the Happy Gum.

Our evening passed at such a sedate pace, between chattering in good-humour and increasingly frequent bouts of giggling. Rhali had actually managed to draw Scorpius a little into conversation while I was attempting to appreciate Ozzy's artistry, and, though it was mostly the three of us talking nonsense, he did chime in with increased frequency. Go figure; who'd have thought?

I could honestly not say what we talked about. I think the topic of quidditch came up once – maybe twice, but that may have just been a continuation from the first discussion – but far be it from the exchange of tactical speculation that Scorpius initially appeared to be directing it towards, myself, Rhali and Ozzy fell into our normal banter whenever the subject of broomsticks arose. Namely, who the bloody hell came up with such a dangerous invention, and why on earth would you _ever_ think of playing a sport with them? I think Scorpius was more astounded than affronted by our culminated perspective. Or maybe he just couldn't understand what we were saying as we overrode each other in exclamations interspersed with loud bursts of laughter.

School came up a bit. Home, too, but we mostly steered clear of that. A good portion of the evening was spent poking fun at and commiserating over my sister Lily in equal turns; she'd very thoroughly and very publically dumped her boyfriend Kip in front of the entire school at dinner on Wednesday. It was acknowledged by all of us that we were quite proud of her for her assertiveness, even if it did border on the aggressive a little when she'd dumped a pitcher of pumpkin juice over his head. But hey, it managed to get the message across.

By that stage, even Scorpius was smiling. I didn't know he even _could_ smile. He looked less drawn then he had earlier that evening, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my spontaneous decision. Not like I'd been particularly taken with the idea initially, but it seemed to have worked out. Scorpius even seemed to have alleviated himself of the stick up his arse a little bit, and he was actually a fairly good conversationalist when he wasn't trying to pressure anyone into doing their homework or studying them for untucked shirts and flipped collars to deduct house points. Who knew?

It was only when the bell sounded for ten o'clock, announcing seventh year curfew in effect in fifteen minutes, that we made a move from the Niche. By that stage, the effects of the Happy Gum had begun to dwindle, leaving a faintly warm buzz in the chest and an overall feeling of satisfaction without the inclination to spontaneously break into laughter. I like the come down from Happy Gum; it's almost as good as the actual thing.

It was only when we parted ways, a headlock hug from Rhali and a mutual pack on the back with Ozzy that I realised Scorpius had actually taken the gum. He never made it obvious that he had, but the faint blueness to his lips and the small smile he offered each of us before turning away and heading down the corridor was telling enough.


	5. Why Should I Not?

_~Scorpius~_

If one of my classmates had told me a week ago that I would be getting high with the three oddballs of seventh year come Sunday, I would have stared at them blankly for a moment before assigning them a detention and deducting house points for being an idiot. That, and interrogating them over who had set them the prank.

If anyone, classmate or teacher, had told me that it would become a regular occurrence? I think I would have reported the school to the ministry as going off the rails. That or initiated an investigation into whatever lingered in the air to initiate such wayward accusations.

They'd be right though. Hard as it was to believe, I left the little common room on the sixth floor – what I had discovered was fondly termed 'the Niche' – for the second time in as many weeks after spending time with Potter, Hamphyn and Ipping. Potter's Happy Gum was… really something.

No, that wasn't right. It was Albus, Rhali, and Oscar now. Albus had withheld the Gum from me the second time I'd met with them until I'd agreed to call them all by their first names. Odd as it seemed, that was motivation enough.

It terrified me, to be honest. I had no idea what drove me to follow Albus up to the sixth floor the previous Sunday, and I have equally no clue as to what drove me to stay. I was a prefect – probably one of the most persistent of all prefects currently assigned – and I did _not_ take illicit substances. I didn't _want_ to, either. It has never even been on the cards for me. I was a solid student; my weekends were spent in my books, not lounging around on sofas contemplating the ceiling as though it explained the every existential theories of life and the universe.

That's not me.

So why did I stay? If I was going to confess to a teacher, I might have claimed that I was concerned for my fellow students taking a backyard drug and wanted to make sure they were alright, that no one dropped dead, and that if any problems arose then I would be on hand to provide assistance.

Technically, this was true. It was just not the _whole_ truth.

For, quite aside from that, I was a little heartbroken. I'd just told my favourite teacher of my best and favourite subject that I had no intentions of furthering my career in that profession, and the expression of disappointed acceptance on his face had left me shattered. On top of that, I'd been pushing myself on a rigorous study schedule all week, surviving on less than five hours of sleep a night, and frantically attempting to commit to memory all that I'd been revising for the summer. I had a larger than normal workload for classes, even more extensive than Rose Weasley's, and it took every ounce of my focus to keep up with everything.

Maybe it was a bit too ambitious of me. I didn't technically need ten N.E. , but I was eternally paranoid that there may be some content that could be useful in my future business career that I'd have missed the opportunity to learn.

I was exhausted already, almost before term had begun. A bundle of frazzled nerves and worries I was, and it weighed me down. When Yeong had bid me goodnight, I had very nearly fallen to pieces, aching to tell him that yes, I wanted to make my father proud and follow in his footsteps because that was what was expected of me, but I would _love_ to continue Potioneering.

I hadn't. It had taken all of my willpower, all of my practice, to remain stoic and keep my lips shut, but I hadn't. That wasn't the Malfoy way.

When Albus had told me I looked miserable, it wasn't a surprise. I might have been avoiding telling myself as much in so many words, but I was not oblivious enough of my own feelings to not have realised I wasn't exactly happy. When he told me I'd burn myself out… again, hardly surprise. I knew I couldn't keep up the exhausting pace I'd racing along at for long. I only hoped that I could maintain it until the end of the school year, and after that… at least I would have a period of recovery before throwing myself into the cesspool of business and verbal warfare.

It was the way Albus had looked at me when he said it, though, that had caught my attention. I'd barely spoken to his at all, ever, and yet something about his words, his tone, made it seem like he actually cared that I was running myself into the ground. I didn't know why he would care, what motivation he had behind feeling as much, but it just seemed like…

Like he actually wanted me to slow down because it would be the best for me.

I'd followed him up to the sixth floor. We were halfway there before I'd realised our destination, and it took only a moment of contemplating Albus' words and his suggestion to 'follow him' that I concluded his version of seeking relief from a stressful situation, of 'chilling out', almost certainly meant popping something illegal.

I should have turned back then. Should have pulled him up for a detention that I _should_ have given him a week ago. But I didn't. And within ten minutes, I was secreted in that cosy little room, wedged in an armchair, trying to avoid staring at the Gum Albus had given me while being subjected to a one-sided conversation with Rhali.

She was saying something about Albus, professing her absolute confidence in his Herbologist's green thumb that I found nothing if not a little overwhelming. She sounded so proud, more like the splicing the plants to produce the Happy Gum was her own accomplishment rather than her friend's. Then she started talking about the distinction from Happy Gum and Bubble gum, which apparently traditionally came from rubber trees, which faded into a spiel that sounded more like propaganda for Muggle sweets than anything else.

I had no idea how she got onto the subject. I wasn't an active participant in the exchange, really, only an ear to talk into. Across the room, Albus and Oscar were chatting amicably – something about hiking than in some way led into contemplating abstract artwork – and seemed to be paying myself and Rhali no attention at all.

They were all talking. Talking _a lot_. I would never have picked any of them to be able to run their mouths like they were; apart from one very distinct incident I could recall, none of them had said more than two words in class, and only spoke when directly spoken to outside of the classroom. It almost seemed like they were making up for lost time with the speed of their conversation.

At first it was one of the most awkward experiences I'd ever experienced. I'd simply sat and listened, and for the most part, the three outcasts that seemed so comfortable with one another talked around me. It had startled me at first, when Albus first turned to me to ask my opinion on something quidditch related, and it had taken me an embarrassingly long moment to gather myself enough to reply. It was a rather stilted reply, at that.

No one commented on my delay, or my response, simply continuing with the conversation as though it fit perfectly into the context. Which perhaps to them it did. They really seemed to be… happy. I don't know if it was the effects of the Gum that was staining their lips darker or if they were just that comfortable with one another, but watching them so relaxed, so easy in their conversation… I felt faintly envious.

I couldn't help myself. In a split decision that moved my hand before I fully realised what I was doing, I folded the blue leaf into my mouth.

And regretted it instantly. The shocking assault to my tongue was almost painful, and it was all I could do maintain a blank face rather than gasp, splutter and spit it out. Until suddenly it wasn't. A tangy taste settled in my mouth, completely overriding the whiplash of the shock, and right on its tail a steady warmth flooded through me. Immediately I felt… lighter. My head actually felt clearer, and the nagging melancholy that had been burdening my shoulders since leaving the dungeons abruptly lifted. It just drifted apart.

And suddenly, the conversation wasn't so awkward. It was _easy_ , as easy as brewing a Forgetfulness Potion. I'd even laughed with the three other seventh years.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed.

It was only the next morning that I really considered what I'd done the night before. And, horrified though I knew I should be, I couldn't quite bring myself to regret following Albus when he'd told me to. The effects of the Happy Gum had worn off, and the weariness had come alongside a detached yet mad scramble to consider everything I had to do the next day, every thing I had to prepare for in my final year, and every possibility that I could encounter.

But even so, even with all of my worries crashing down around me, I could remember that brief respite as one might look back upon a happy memory. It hadn't been productive in the least, yet for those few hours I had experienced a reprieve. It was enough to assist me in sleeping better than I had for months, and enough that when I awoke I could approach my perceived tasks with resolution and without fear of caving beneath the weight of everything that piled up before me.

I didn't talk to Albus, Rhali or Oscar at all in the following week. I couldn't even bring myself to make eye contact with them when I truly wanted to, to even express a modicum of gratitude for including me in their one-off adoption of a frazzled classmate. For whatever reason, however, I couldn't do it. Not only did I struggle to even glance at any of them, but whenever I did they were always huddled into their public guises of the silent shadows that faded into obscurity at the back of the classroom. I'd never noticed before how unnoticeable each of them were; it was like a well-honed skill. Their very lack of presence detracted from the adeptness they demonstrated in removing themselves from careless onlookers. It was such a sharp contrast to their jovial, carefree attitudes I'd witnessed the past Sunday that I was having difficulty wrapping my head around it.

I failed to initiate any form of contact between us, failed dismally, and considered that it to be a very deliberate movement of the part of the three outcasts in their exclusive group. Until Sunday at dinner, however, when Rhali swept up to my table and paused right beside me. No one seemed to even notice her arrival, though I'm not sure she would have cared if they had.

When I made eye contact with her, she stared at me penetratingly, as though attempting to communicate without the use of words. A second later, she raised on eyebrow as if in question, tilted her head to the doors of the Great Halls in a directional gesture, and raised the other eyebrow.

Uncomprehending, I'd frowned in confusion. I didn't understand this sign language; was she asking for something in particular? Did she need me to come with her somewhere? For Prefect duties or something? Did someone need my help? I didn't know, and my response was apparently perceived. Leaning into my side, she whispered so quietly I had to strain to hear, the hiss of her breath louder than her actual words. "You coming tonight, Mr Prefect, or was once enough for you?"

She didn't wait for a reply, and I was left staring after her in bewilderment. Understanding clicked a moment later however, as she cast a final sardonic glance over her shoulder before disappearing. I was on my feet before I knew it.

Wandering down the hall back to the Ravenclaw Tower, I contemplated my second gathering with the odd trio. It had been very much like the previous time, with Albus handing around the clippings of tough, chewy leaf, the shock of the attack on my tongue, and then the relief of being able to consider that, possibly, my life wouldn't crumble into ruins if I wavered even the slightest from the strict rigidity I enforced upon myself.

We talked, the four of us, and it was comfortable in a way that I had never expected it to be with any of them. With any of my classmates, really. I just… didn't get along with them particularly well. I found their topics of conversation – largely fluctuating between bemoaning about their classwork and prevailing upon those in the nearest vicinity their current relationship status – to be by and large rather immature. Tiresome.

Albus, Rhali and Oscar, they didn't talk about schoolwork much. I got the impression they were pretty much biding their time to get out of school. That they were simply gritting their teeth to plough through and move onto the next stage in their lives, though what those stages involved I hadn't yet discovered. They didn't talk about any potentially amorous relationships; as far as I knew, none of them were engaged in any, least of all with each other. They appeared at times to be more like siblings than potential love interests.

No, when we spoke it was of other things entirely. Nothing particularly deep on a personal level, but I found them interesting nonetheless. There was no rhyme or reason to the direction of the flow of conversation either. Someone would simply have a thought, voice it aloud, and the ball would roll from there.

"What do you think they decided first, to put Hufflepuff's Basement next to the kitchen or the other way around?"

"You know, Asprin works heaps better for a headache than a Pepper-Up Potion. I really think they should consider integrating Muggle meds into the Hospital Wing."

"Have you heard that down in Greece they've managed to breed a chimaera that's swapped its goat's head with a bird's? That's kind of stupid, right? I mean, it's not really a chimaera anymore then, is it?"

"I can't swim, I've realised. I mean, I've been taught but I'm pretty sure I'd drown if someone threw me in the Black Lake. You've got to take these things into account when you're planning our graduation trip, Rhali."

It was all rather random, usually impersonal, and rarely seemed capable of pausing except for very brief moments of contemplation. I found that I actually… enjoyed it.

I had never experienced anything so simple in my life, not even when Hamish and Tatsuya were still at school. And more than that, I was revelling in the effects of the Happy Gum.

It would have worried me, if the effects had been stronger, had lasted longer. I've always been a little sceptical of anyone who dabbled in substance use, even if it was only short-term. Though no one could really claim they were quite so consistent in their use as Albus, Rhali or Oscar, I wasn't deaf and I did hear the odd story of trying whatever was the latest and greatest here and there. Almost always Wizarding strains, thankfully. I'd heard some of the stories of Muggle drugs. None of them were good.

Except that the Happy Gum only lasted for two hours at most before slowly dwindling at such a rate that there was no shocking blow as reality set back in, no crash from a euphoric high that left one listless and depressed. It was basically the perfect drug, this gum that Albus had grown. All of the benefits without a hint of negative side effects.

It seemed too good to be true, but I couldn't bring myself to object. I was simply too grateful to consider the impossibility of something that seemed to be having such a positive effect on me. And I could feel the effects, even after just two tries. The next Sunday was much the same. And the one after. And the one after that. Before I knew it, after dinner on the second night of the weekend my feet naturally would naturally lead me up to the Niche. I was looking _forward_ what I saw as my weekly break.

A month back into school, after my usual fix of Happy, I stepped into the Ravenclaw common room and I cast my eyes in a customary scan around the room to determine the state of things. It's a habit I'd gotten into, and I'm a little embarrassed to admit that it set in even before I was nominated as a prefect. I couldn't help it; I like knowing what's going on where.

The majority of the occupants of the room were fifth years and up. Good; the younger students were finally realising that late nights weren't always such a good thing. It often took a while for the first years to come to terms with the responsibility of setting their own bedtimes. Usually the latest to realise such finally kicked their then-sleep deprived brains into gear by the end of a month. This year, whether it was by the suggestion of a prefect or Winona, or whether they were just a particularly level-headed bunch, all of them appeared to have realised the benefits of sleep rather rapidly.

Good on them.

I exchanged a nod with Winona as I passed – she always took the time to greet everyone as they enter the common room – and made my way towards my dorm. Only Callum was in his bed, the rest still likely upstairs studying, and he was buried in a book himself, curled up on his bed.

My dorm mate raised his head as I entered, however, following my progress to my own bed as I passed him by. "Hey, how's it going?"

I shrugged. "Fine."

"You studying tonight too?"

Loosening my tie, I sighed, letting myself fall into detached attentiveness to reply. "Yeah, till dinner. I took the night off."

A confused silence rung through the room that I was only half aware of as I shed myself of my robes. "What? _You_ took the night off?"

I paused in the act of unbuttoning my shirt, glancing towards Callum. "Yes. Why? Is something wrong with that?"

Callum shook his curly head, mouth opening to reply before closing again thoughtfully. He appeared slightly wary, and I bit the inside of my lip in self-reprimand; perhaps I had responded with just a little too much affront.

When Callum did speak his words were voiced hesitantly. "Nothing. There's nothing wrong with that. It's good actually, I think, sometimes… Nothing wrong." He turned his face down towards his open book, but from the corner of my eye I could tell he wasn't reading but simply staring blankly at the pages. I pretended not to notice, busying myself with changing into my nightwear. I refrained from glancing towards him when he continued.

"What did you get up to then?"

Slowly, my arms gradually sliding through the sleeves of my nightshirt, I turned towards Callum. What was he so interested in? Was it really so strange of me to take a night off? Though as soon as the thought arose I had to admit that yes, it sort of was.

Feigning nonchalance, though I felt uneasy with Callum's probing questions – he always liked to be in everybody's business – I shrugged. "Just with some friends."

"Friends?"

"From other houses," I replied through gritted teeth.

"Oh, that's…"

It was very difficult not to glare at Callum, even with the lingering mellowness of the memory of Happy Gum. "What? Is there something wrong with _that_?"

A faint smile had settled upon Callum's lips, but it was his words, not his expression or the defensive wave of his hand, that evaporated my rising affront. "No, no, nothing wrong at all. It's just… I guess it's good to hear you hanging out with friends. You need the balance, you know?"

I stared at Callum in mute surprise. My only saving grace is that I know for a fact my 'surprised' expression is about as blank as they come. With the same slowness I had turned towards him, I turned away once more and climbed onto my bed. Ten o'clock was early to sleep, so I'd get some readings done for a few hours behind closed curtains.

The readings didn't interest me as they should have, though. Callum's words echoed in my head, an echo of what Albus had said a week ago. Something about the balance and not burning myself out. Taking a break. I'd accepted as much, but Callum evidently felt that spending time with friends while enjoying this break was even better.

Friends. Even though I was the one who called them that first, could I really claim that Albus, Rhali and Oscar were my friends? Our relationship was so different to that which I shared with those I considered my actual friends, even when overlooking the fact that it revolved around recreational drug use. Though admittedly the pastime didn't seem quite so horrifying to me after experiencing it for myself – or at least experiencing that which Albus had provided – I couldn't say that people like Phillippe, like Hamish, like Helen and Tatsuya and Drisella, would look favourably upon such activities. Did that make them more or less of my friends that I continued associating with them anyway?

I pondered the complex concept while my eyes skimmed over my Alchemy textbook, filing information away with half a mind. No, I wasn't sure if they were my friends, but whether it was because of the Happy Gum or simply that when isolated from the general masses of the school in that little room on the sixth floor with the three outcasts of seventh year… I enjoyed being with them. I actually _enjoyed_ it.

It wasn't a definitive moment that I made the decision, but as I slid between my blankets two hours later it was with one conclusion in mind: we might be completely different people outside of that Niche, but regardless I wanted to at least try to know my three sort-of-friends outside of that context.

Who knows, maybe 'friends' might actually be a benefit to my final year at Hogwarts?

* * *

Wandering down towards the Herbology greenhouses on Monday afternoon was the moment I decided to take my first tentative steps forwards in my resolution. It was a goal I'd decided over breakfast and I reaffirmed my decision to act at lunch. For whatever reason it seemed at least on par with my classwork for capturing my interest and warranting assumption in important space in my mind. A foreign concept, to be sure, but I found the prospect intriguing to consider. Besides, it helped to distract me from the sometimes-useless trekking in circles over my workload.

Greenhouse Two Seventh year was one of the biggest greenhouses that Hogwarts possessed. Located at the far end of the stretch of glass buildings, it was wide and squat and fit to bursting with foliage. I stepped inside just as the distant school bell sounded for the period to initiate.

The room appeared just as overgrown and stuffed with a vast array of plants on the inside as it did from the outside. Vines and creepers crawled across the walls in place of the portraits for decoration, and a large pot-plant that looked more like a full-sized tree than anything else sat to the right of the entrance. Along the length of the room, a sturdy wooden table was outfitted with more seats than was ever necessary for a seventh year class, and running parallel alongside the table were tiered shelving, pressed against the walls in sentinel-like formality. There's not an inch of shelf-space that didn't bear a potted plant of some description. More than there are seventh year Herbology students, actually, and I had to wonder at that; I'm fairly certain that Longbottom used the greenhouse for his personal storage.

Longbottom himself was busy at the far end of the greenhouse with what appeared to be a giant venomous tentacula, the plant towering over him in a way that would have had me taking at least three large steps backwards. Its exceptional size entailed exceptionally sized tooth-like structures; I'm not entirely sure that a plant that size wouldn't at least try to consume a human if given the opportunity.

Our Herbology practical lessons this term focused upon self-appointed research projects. Working either independently or in groups of two, the assignment was to pick a plant of moderate to high difficulty rearing and conduct an experimental study into the effects of various contributing factors to the growth of the chosen plant. Just before Christmas, a ten-foot report on the ecology and experimental outcome was to be submitted.

It was a broad – very broad – project, which I found actually harder than receiving obsessively specific instruction. How was I supposed to know what to focus on in my report, let alone what plant to chose and what factor to measure with such hazy guidelines? I suppose that's part of the challenge, though.

Heading towards roughly the centre of the shelving, to the location I kept my own experiment, I cast a quick glance around myself in search of Albus, Rhali and Oscar. We all shared Herbology as a class, something I'd found surprising until Oscar had logically pointed out that, growing up with Albus as a best friend, how could they not have at least some interest in magical plants? I noticed Oscar directly across the greenhouse from me, and as I turned Rhali entered the door – late, which I'd come to expect. She usually just got away with it because no one seemed to notice her presence when she was here. I couldn't see Albus, but that wasn't particularly surprising. He was kind of elusive like that when he apparently wanted to be.

Shifting my attention back towards my plant, I pushed the thought of my Friend Experiment to the side in favour of my Herbology one. No matter how curious I was about pursuing the former, schoolwork would always come first for me. Of that I was certain. Besides, given that the project was largely self-driven, if I got my work done with relative speed I could potentially pursue my other endeavours afterwards.

The species I'd chosen was, as directed, of moderate to high difficulty to raise. Something that would ensure I could handle it – nothing too difficult; I'm not that exceptionally proficient at Herbology – but similarly ensuring that I wouldn't lose marks for choosing something too simplistic. A Chattering Water Lily, it was a rootless plant that requires incredibly saline water to survive, not to mention lots of it, as well as utter stagnation as a seedling. As a precaution, I'd set up wards all around it that physically barred access of everyone other than Longbottom or myself. I was studying the effect of the addition of different salinity-influencing charms upon the water, to determine their overall effect and if it is more influential than physically pouring in the alternate water.

Fortunately for me, there was not too much do by way of caring for the plant except to leave it untouched and record my observations. I did as much before pulling out my Defence homework to head a head start on Friday's theoretical. I don't know why I chose the Chattering lily, except for maybe its usefulness in potions; the incredibly salt-dense roots acted as a neutraliser for particularly volatile potions. Other than that, there was nothing exceptional about the plant; small white flowers of a mediocre lustre, plain green roots of a colour I typically associated as being 'plant green'. Nothing… except for that which gave it it's name. Chattering though it may be dubbed, the sound was only audible when the surroundings are completely silent. It was supposed to echo the most prominent conversations the listener has experienced in their whole life. I've read descriptions of people considering the sound 'poignant'.

I've only heard it once, when I had to make a trip down to the greenhouses to ask Longbottom for clarification with the project. Though it was a merry little sound, almost like the idle chirping of conversing birds, I couldn't say I could discern any 'past conversations' from the chatter. I found it oddly fascinating that such a sound could only be heard when there was practically no one around to listen. It seemed sort of beautiful in that regard.

When the bell tolled for the initiation of the second half of our period, I glanced up from my readings around the classroom. I'd been caught up in my homework, but the disruption of the bell alerted me to my other experiment. I'd reasoned that, by allotting myself time to get some additional work in, I was also providing time for Albus, Rhali and Oscar, to get a degree of their own completed before interrupting them.

Glancing around the room, I noticed that, at least for Rhali and Oscar, my reasoning was invalid. They were standing either side of a tall, thin flower with a drooping head of pale violet, a pair of shears in each of their hands. They appeared to be trying to cut something, I had no idea what, but the tall flower – it looked like a Starburst Blossom – was remarkably dextrous at sweeping out of their reach. It was sort of funny to watch, and I'm sure I wouldn't be the only one to think so except that, well… this was Rhali and Oscar, two of the three Invisible People of our year. I doubt anyone else even noticed their efforts.

Packing my books into my bag, I drifted towards their little project. Apparently they were working together, though I didn't know where that left Albus. Maybe because he was more adept at Herbology, they'd made the decision that he could handle the project alone better than the other two. Personally, given the continued flailing of their shears, I thought they could probably use another set of hands and someone who actually knew what they were doing.

I stopped several feet away from them, pausing to watch and see if they were anywhere near finishing for the day or, in failing that, if there was an opening for an interruption. Neither appeared particularly forthcoming, so I glanced around the greenhouse for Albus instead. It seemed, however, to my confusion, that he was still missing.

When I turned back to Rhali and Oscar, it was to find the Slytherin girl paused in her attempted clipping and fixing me with a stare. There shouldn't have been anything particularly intimidating about her gaze, except that, for whatever reason, there was. Maybe it was just her ability to stare, and stare, and stare without blinking. She looked like a snake hypnotising her prey.

Taking the proffered opening, I stepped forwards. Considering for a moment the best approach, I let my tongue decide for me. "Hi. Having a little trouble?"

Rhali stared at me.

Of course she stared. Silently. But then she blinked, slowly, and I don't know why but that for some reason it just made her seem even more intimidating. And she not to say a word.

Fighting the urge to sigh in exasperation – _not_ uneasiness – I clicked my tongue quietly and shifted in a motion that was definitely not an awkward fidget. Definitely. I changed tactics. "You two work together, right? What does Albus do, then?"

Still Rhali didn't speak. I didn't like the way she was grasping her shears. She looked like she was on the verge of stabbing me with them. How different she was to the chatterbox that arose under the influence of Happy Gum.

Thankfully, however, my attempts finally attracted Oscar's notice. Pausing in his own attempts at shearing, he spared me a questioning glance. "Albus?" Thank God Oscar was at least slightly more willing to converse than his two friends in a public environment.

Nodding, I turned my attention from Rhali to Oscar. I didn't miss the very distinct ' _snip_ ' of the girl's shears, however, that seemed pointed directly in my direction. "Yeah. Just curious to see what he's chosen for his project."

Oscar regarded me with raised eyebrows. There might have been a hint of suspicion there – what, did he think I was going to steal his work or something? – before his eyes cleared and he gave a slight shrug. "Honestly, I don't really understand what he's doing for his project. If you wanted to take a look, though, I'm pretty sure he's still out the back."

"The back?"

"Out towards the Forbidden Forest." He gestured towards the backdoor of the greenhouse with a swing of his shears that breezed dangerously close to Rhali's head. "It's not like he's keeping it private or anything. You can go have a look if you'd like."

"Alright." Then, because it seemed appropriate, I offered a small smile. "Thanks."

Oscar shrugged, shifting his attention from me in what was apparently a loss of interest, and went back to attempting – and failing – to clip his flower. A moment later, Rhali joined him. I left them to it; obviously they weren't particularly keen to talk.

When I exited the back door of the Greenhouse Two, it was to find no Albus. Not obviously anyway. Scanning briefly about myself, I turned towards the Forbidden Forest, making my way down the slight decline.

He had his back to me when I finally saw him. I would have missed him, too, if I hadn't been scanning the edge of the forest so closely. Not because of his natural tendency to be overlooked as he was in class, but because he actually stood about a dozen feet _into_ the forest. Quiet daring, to be honest; it was commonly accepted that no one step past the very edge of the tree line.

Albus didn't appear to be posing as his usual shadowed self either, which I found interesting. No bowed head and slightly hunched shoulders, clinging to the nearest wall – or tree in this case – as though attempting to merge into the obscurity it provided. Instead, he had himself set in a wide, firm stance, feet planted and hands resting upon his hips. Though I couldn't see what he was looking at, he almost appeared to be scolding someone.

I don't think I was being that quiet or sneaky in my approach, but when I voiced a deliberately casual, "Albus, what are you doing _in_ the forest?" he spun around so fast he nearly tripped over.

Eyes blown wide for a moment, Albus slowly blinked them shut, released a shaky breath and pressed a hand to his chest. "Jesus, Scorpius, you nearly gave me a bloody heart attack?"

"Oh, are you Christian? I hadn't heard, but I'm sure the tabloids would be more than eager to gauge your perspective on religious matters."

Albus blinked. "What? What are you talking about?"

I shook my head in reply, but couldn't keep my niggling smile from spreading across my face. _Albus_ was talking to me, even if Rhali and Oscar seemed reluctant. Maybe it was just that we were away from everybody else – that was probably it – but it heartened me that I wasn't given the cold shoulder once more. The benefits of being outside, even if 'outside' happened to be in the Forbidden Forest as Albus worked on…

Peering over Albus' shoulder, I frowned. "What are you doing out here, anyway?"

Brow furrowed faintly, apparently puzzled by my question, Albus stared at me for a moment before jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "My research project." He said it slowly, with a slight rise in the end of his statement as though asking a question.

"Yes, I'd gathered as much. What are you doing it on?" I figured keeping the topic to Herbology and classwork, at least while we were technically still in class, was the least intimidating approach I could take to initiating conversation with any of the three publically quietest people in the school. "Why does it have to be outside?"

Still fixing me with his puzzled frown as though wondering what game I was playing at, Albus slowly turned to glance over his shoulder. He seemed to shift his attention in that moment, moving backwards a few steps from his startled immobility. "Chinese Runner Pods. I'm looking at the effect of extending the longevity of their energy on the distance of their dispersal."

Which made absolutely no sense to me. I pained me to admit it, but I had no idea what he was talking about. "Chinese Runner Pods?"

Sparing me a glance over his shoulder, Albus tilted his head in a pointed gesture. I stepped up to his side to see what he was directing me towards and felt my eyebrows rise incredulously.

"What are those?"

"Runner Pods," Albus supplied. Which, to be honest, was fairly obvious. I think my tongue just voiced the first words that came to mind because it was sort of short-circuiting in bemusement at the moment and I couldn't come up with anything intelligible to add.

Before me were what looked like little brown insects with green legs. They wavered like newborn colts, stumbling over the twigs and pebbles that covered the ground woozily as though drunk. Not quickly, mind, but their movement was obvious enough that they were distinguishable from the leaf little. It was only when I squinted at them that considering their appearance. Aside from the variable number of green 'legs', they looked rather like a walnut.

"Those are plants."

"Pods, yes," Albus corrected. He squatted down on his haunches as though to get a better look at them.

"And they're walking."

"They only walk as seeds; they sprout little shoots and use them like legs. Not particularly effectively, mind. I think 'walker' would be a better description than 'runner'."

"Why?" I asked, my bemusement overriding my surprise.

"Well they don't exactly run," Albus pointed out, as though it should have been obvious. He flicked a finger towards the stumbling pods.

I shook my head. "No, I mean why do they walk?" Not quite squatting beside Albus – such a pose wasn't really dignified enough for me, even in the privacy of the forest – I peered more closely at the nuts. Pods. Whatever. "I've never even heard of them before." Which I haven't, surprisingly. I mean, I might not be the Herbology student that Albus is, but my grades are fairly commendable. The knowledge is applicable in Potions, and I found that such an applicability was motivation enough to encourage me to study the subject in my earlier years. I've _never_ heard of self-moving pods before. Walking or running.

"They shoot sprouts that act like legs because their pods are too heavy and too tough for dispersal from other means. Like ingestion by birds, or wind dispersal. And it's not surprising you haven't heard of them," Albus replied. He was still looking at me strangely, as though I were a puzzle he was attempting to piece together. But answered me readily enough so I could hardly find fault in it. "They're pretty rare. I only managed to get my hands on them because my Uncle Bill made a trip to China over the summer right at the time when the pods are sprouting. They cost their weight in diamond, but he knew I'd find them fascinating, so…"

He gave me a small, fond smile that, though he faced me, was directed entirely to the absent Bill. It didn't particularly bother me that I didn't even know the man; I was just happy that Albus seemed eager to converse with me in much the same manner we did every Sunday evening. Except for the continued curiosity on his face, he was acting exactly the same as normal. Talking so much that it almost made me forget that, by and large, Albus was _silent_.

That curious expression was turned upon me once more, and I sighed in exasperation. "What?"

Albus slowly raised a shoulder in a shrug, his study becoming less covert. He pursed his lips, considered for a moment, before speaking. "What did you want?"

I raised my eyebrow. "What do I want? What do you mean?"

Shaking his head, Albus turned back towards his pods. He still watched me from the corner of his eye, though. "I mean, why are you talking to me? We don't, really. At all, outside of our Niche."

It felt nice that he called little sixth floor room 'ours', even if he was referring more to Rhali, Oscar and himself than to me. I felt satisfied enough that I wasn't even that put out by his words. "Is it a problem that I'm talking to you?"

That puzzlement was back in full force and Albus shifted his attention directly towards me once more. "No, not a problem. It's just… Scorpius, you _never_ talk to me. Ever."

Which was a bit of an exaggeration – what was Sunday evening, then? – but I immediately felt guilty. It was true; I'd barely spared a moment to nod my head at any of my late-night friends during the week, and then not even that when it became apparent that they were hesitant to respond. None of them had experienced the decisiveness that I had last night. I supposed my abrupt inclination to befriend them in a more active approach was a bit spontaneous. It explained Rhali's wariness, anyway, though then again that could just be Rhali's personality in its entirety.

Peering down at my fingernails and idly scrubbing them free of the coat of dirt they'd accumulated – a natural occurrence from even stepping within the greenhouses – I strove to appear casual. "Maybe I realised that I quite liked talking to you. And that I might want to do it a little more."

"But… why?"

"I think I just explained that."

"No, I mean," Albus shook his head like trying to clear his ears of water. "I don't know, I just thought that you'd probably not want to be seen talking to someone like me."

"Someone like you? A Potter? Or –"

"A stoner. A burnout. A junkie. Take your pick." He shrugged as though the names didn't hurt him, and they truly appeared not to. "I didn't think you'd want to be seen associating someone that is largely considered a drop-kick."

I scowled, a little because of the truth of his words than because I was offended at the thought of them labelling any of the three oddballs. But mostly because, at least until recently, I'd thought largely the same of them. Now I knew better; they weren't, at least, 'drop-kicks'. Not really. "I hardly care about that. And I don't care if people see me associating with you."

" _You_ don't care? _You_?" Albus' voice was a clear expression of disbelief, a mirror of the expression that replaced his puzzlement. Not contemptuous, but sincere disbelief. "An A grade prefect with a greater reputation for adhering to school rules and procedure than even my uncle Percy? _You_ don't care?"

His tone left me disgruntled, though again I could hardly dispute it. He spoke the truth as far as I could tell, though I didn't know Percy Weasley personally. "Look, I just enjoy spending time with you all on Sundays and thought that we could possibly be friends outside of that. Though if you all find it so disagreeable I won't protest to the way things stand now. I don't mind, either way." Which was a lie, but Albus didn't need to know that.

The Hufflepuff boy was silent beside me for so long that I lifted my eyes from where they stared blindly at my nails just to ascertain if he was still there. He was, still squatting with the top of his head barely reaching my waist height and peering up at me with an expression that I could not read at all.

"You want to be friends?"

My scowl intensified, though more from embarrassment than annoyance. "Is there something wrong with that?"

Albus was quicker in replying this time. He shook his head, a small smile curling his lips. "Nope, nothing wrong. I'm just surprised, is all."

"So…"

"So sure. If you'd like." Albus' smile widened to a grin that I'd only ever seen under the effects of Happy Gum. "I'd love to be your friend, Scorpius. As long as you can put up with me." And his grin turned cheeky, a cheekiness that rarely even showed itself with the Gum.

I couldn't prevent the answering smile from blossoming on my own cheeks had I wanted to. It was impossible not to in the face of such good-humour. Deliberately turning back towards the Runner Pods, I sniffed and gestured with a finger. "How long do they keep going for?"

Albus took the hint. He shrugged. "That's what I'm trying to find out. I've charmed them with special enhancing charms to see if it will make their sprouts last longer."

"Last longer?"

"They fall off when their energy stores reach a certain limit. That's where they settle down and set their roots."

"Brutal," I replied, because if they weren't plants than the evisceration would have been horrifying. Still, Albus' experiment sounded a lot more interesting than my own. "Will it be much longer, do you think?"

"No idea. Which is why I'm basically just following them at the moment."

I sighed. "Do you think it's the wisest decision to follow mindless nuts –"

"Pods."

"- into the Forbidden Forest? It's 'forbidden' for a reason, Albus."

"Well, I can't exactly let them wander off by themselves," Albus replied with a return of his grin. His expression was doting, like a mother with her children. "And if we're going to be friends, Scorpius, proper friends, call me Al."

I felt warmth kindle and abruptly begin to spread through my chest. "If that's what you'd prefer." And, because I couldn't help myself, "Not Ally?"

Albus rolled his eyes, but his smile remained affixed. "God, _please_ not Ally."

His following laugh was the first I'd ever heard without the boost of the Happy Gum. It sounded distinctly different.

I decided liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! I hope you liked the chapter. Please let me know what you think if you get the chance; I'd really appreciate a word, question or even (cringe) criticism. Thank you!


	6. There's Nothing Wrong With It

_~Albus~_

"'Alchemy is the art of liberating parts of the Cosmos from temporal existence and achieving perfection which, for metals is gold, and for man, longevity, then immortality and, finally, redemption.'" Scorpius paused expectantly after his little spiel, giving his textbook a meaningful tap. " _Darke Hierogliphicks_ is a modern classic, Al. It's basically law. You can't preach to me that Muggle science trounces such established interpretations."

I smothered a groan as half of our small class turned to glance towards Scorpius with a mixture of bemusement, curiosity and attentiveness. No matter how often I attempted to enforce upon Scorpius my desire for discretion in the classroom, he seemed adamant in conversing loud enough for the entire class to hear.

Keeping my voice low – because _I_ knew how to speak unobtrusively – I affixed my gaze upon my parchment and tapped it with the end of my quill. "You can quote me Linden all day, Scor. I'm just acting the messenger. We're supposed to explore Muggle and Wizarding theory _objectively_ , not explain why one is right over the other."

"But there is only one _right_."

Sliding further into my seat, I very pointedly ignored the half-dozen heads still turned towards us. After weeks of being openly friendly with Scorpius, I had to my surprise found myself verbalising my thoughts more, even when outside of the isolation of my little friendship group. Not intentionally, of course; it was more of a by-product of being around Scorpius. He simply _had_ to talk, because Scorpius demanded answers with the slight tilt of his head, the pointed expression and the gradual rise of his pale, perfectly plucked eyebrow that only climber with each moment of extended silence.

I might not be particularly comfortable with it, but mumbling a reply was better than not saying anything at all. Besides, unexpected as it might be given how different we are, I really enjoyed spending time with Scorpius. Even in class when he became a studious, paranoid perfectionist.

Three weeks we'd been going through the paces of becoming 'friends'. All in all, it was quite surprising how quickly we four had fallen into companionability with one another. I think I was probably the most comfortable of all of us with Scorpius, even more than Ozzy was surprisingly, as he was largely acknowledged to be the most amiable of the three of us Original Outcasts. I don't know why that was. Maybe it was just that we shared Alchemy together just the two of us and as a result just spent that little bit more time together.

Though at the moment, I was sort of regretting that we shared the class. Scorpius was a very strong character and almost obsessively opinionated. And despite the fact that he preached that he was quite open to Muggle science and interpretations, he was insistent that in this instance, wizards were superior.

Glancing around at our half-attending peers, I lowered my voice further. Scorpius, I had come to realise, had remarkably good hearing which I made use of when attempting to maintain a semblance of the privacy I coveted. "Linden may be a classic, Scor, but Dubuis is realistically on the mark himself. ' _Alchemy is_ _the art of manipulating life, and consciousness in matter –'"_

"' _\- to help it evolve, or to solve problems of inner disharmonies'_ , yes I am aware of the quote," Scorpius nodded, waving a hand as though, familiar with said quote he was, my words were hardly worthy of consideration. "A happenstance that he came upon that reasoning; Dubuis probably had no idea what he was talking about."

"I don't know, Scor, he made the study of alchemy his life's work."

"Yes, but he completely overlooked the magical aspect of the study."

"That's because he's _Muggle_ ," I reminded him, because in his affront Scorpius seemed to overlook Dubuis being physically unable to engage in the magical lore of alchemy itself. "He literally can't use magic. His theories are still sound, though."

"They barely touch on half of the greater picture of alchemy," Scorpius professed with a condescending tilt of his head, widening his eyes meaningfully. "It's not all about spirituality. There's the physical side too, the transmutation, the recorded attempts at inducing immortality, and that's to say nothing of the Philosopher's Stone itself. Really, have you actually been paying attention to class these past four years?"

There wasn't really any sting to Scorpius' words, which is probably the only reason I refrained from clamping my lips shut and deliberately ignoring him for the short duration of the rest of our lesson. Scorpius hated being ignored, I'd found out quite by chance, and I felt no qualms about abusing such knowledge when he was being a prat. "Actually, I have been paying attention," _sometimes_ , "and I'll have you know that the Philosopher's Stone is sort of close to heart; of _course_ I know all about it." Well, _mostly_ all about it _._

Our combined classwork usually progressed in such a way. Scorpius was a very logical person, very systematic in his approach to his studies and swept like a broom through the dusty coating of knowledge that lay before him. He gathered everything, to the exclusion of nothing, and seemed to have little difficulty remembering just about all of it. My Dubuis quotation was about as far as I could stretch my memory by way of adequate retorts. Words weren't my forte, or at least not of the academic kind.

In contrast, I tended to pick out the bits that interested me and disregarded the rest. Rose frequently expressed horror at my approach; she was more similar to Scorpius in that she liked to know _everything_. I didn't do it on purpose, honestly. It's just that the interesting stuff sticks while the rest, especially in subjects like Transfiguration with theories that I'll never put into practice, just sort of slips away through the cracks.

I think Scorpius would have expressed equal horror to that of my cousin at my subconscious choosiness if not for the fact that he seemed to quite simply enjoy discussing to common subjects with me. We did share quite a few things in common, actually; he was a passionate potions advocate, even if only as a hobby, which naturally leant itself to segueing into Herbology. I wasn't all that bad at Potions myself, and found it sort of interesting, so I could actually contribute to those discussions.

Alchemy, however… I enjoyed it, I guess, but there was a lot of theory and speculation and not all that much transmutation, especially in later years. I don't know why I kept it up, really, except maybe the fact that Dad always said it was better to just plough on through my subjects and strive for as many N.E. as I could than to drop down to too few.

Easy for him to say. He hadn't even bloody well finished his seventh year, the tosser. Off saving the world and all that.

As such, while I might be scraping through with a passing grade for Alchemy, I could hardly stand up to the rigorous debate Scorpius threatened to launch us into. For all his intelligence and the wideness of his reading, Scorpius was prone to turning a blind eye in some cases, such as a Muggle's take on an admittedly magical subject. It was a product of his upbringing, I suspected, though would never say it aloud. Besides, it wasn't like there was anything all that wrong with such an upbringing. The Malfoys weren't _that_ bad.

Thankfully for me, the class didn't last much longer. Even more thankfully, by the time the bell sounded all of our classmates had gone back to ignoring Scorpius and I. Easy enough, seeing as we always sat at the back of the classroom. Scorpius had objected at first when he'd initially suggested we sit together – working together came as a given with the suggestion – but it was something I firmly clung to. I didn't even want people to hear me, let alone look at me.

Packing our books away, Scorpius and I departed the classroom side by side. We'd fallen into the habit of spending more time together, usually with Ozzy and Rhali in tow, and it came almost naturally now. At first, the rest of the school seemed a little dumbfounded. It had nothing to do with our family names – or at least not everything to do with it – and was mostly due to the fact that Outstanding Prefect Scorpius Malfoy was hanging out with the wayward drifters of seventh year who, to unanimous confusion, didn't quite scrape the bottom of the class by way of grades. Rhali, Ozzy and I, we were the weirdos, the outcasts. People didn't bully us, or at least they hadn't since our fourth year, and they didn't comment on our oddity anymore. It was just accepted, like the fact that Tyril was bat-shit crazy and Killian puffed so many cigarettes that he reportedly plumed more smoke than the Hogwarts Express. People left us alone, not because we were hated – or at least I don't think so – but because our weirdness could potentially rub off upon innocent witnesses to that weirdness.

That Scorpius was publicly spending time with us, was talking to us, and that we, on increasing occasion, talked back, seemed to floor everyone for at least the first week or so. Lily had pulled me aside the first time I'd walked into the Entrance Hall between Scorpius and Ozzy, dragging me from my dinner and shunting me around the nearest corner.

"What? What the hell was that?"

"What the hell was what, Lily?"

Lily waved a hand behind her in a crazed gesture that made absolutely no meaning. And I'd know; I'm rather adept at interpreting strange hand-gestures from my early days of experimenting with Rhali. She's a bit flamboyant when she's excessively high.

"I mean _that_. You and Ozzy, walking with Scorpius Malfoy. What was _that_?"

I frowned, slightly put out by my sister's insinuation. Her wide blue eyes were even wider than usual, and she kept brushing at her tousled fringe in a way that only made it stick out worse than it usually did. "I still don't follow."

"Don't play dumb with me, Al. You and Scorpius are at about the opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to typical students. You guys actually looked friendly with one another."

"Maybe because we are."

"What, friends?" Impossibly, Lily's eyes widened further.

I scowled. "Is it so hard to believe that I might be friends with someone other than Rhali and Ozzy?"

Lily stared at me for a moment, incredulity wright across her face. Slowly she shook her head. "No, but it is unbelievable that it would be _Scorpius bloody Malfoy_."

"Why, because he's smart?"

"No, because he isn't a junkie!"

I cuffed my sister lightly over the head, eliciting an indignant mew. It wasn't so much her words that I objected to – yes, my sister is more than aware of my recreational activities, even if my parents still remain ignorant – but it annoyed me that she said them aloud. "Below the belt, Lil."

"Sorry,' Lily replied, and she actually sounded contrite. My little sister hadn't always been so forgiving; once upon a time, when she'd first discovered I was taking, she had blown a fuse. She declared she would "tell Mum and Dad everything" and then proceeded to give me the silent treatment for a month afterwards.

She hadn't told Mum and Dad – thank God – but it was left to me to patch up our relationship. I'd had to approach her, with the help of Rose who had already been informed of my habits and was particularly helpful in assisting me to drag my sister from Gryffindor Tower, and explain something that I'd kept very much to myself. Something that only Rhali, Ozzy, Rose and our sort-of-cousins Lorcan and Lysander were privy to. Though in saying that, I'm pretty sure the Scamander twins didn't hear half of what I said when I told them; the didn't engage in any form of drug use, but I wouldn't be the first and definitely not the last to suspect they maintained a state of permanent drug-induced mellowness. They were just that vague.

Lily had quietened when I told her how I'd begun using. How I had a nervous breakdown in first year, and Ozzy had approached me and offered me some of his mum's anxiety medication. How, even though I'd known it was stupid and dangerous, and that I'd barely known Ozzy at the time to trust anything that he gave me, I'd taken it. And I'd never regretted it, not once.

I told Lily of how I'd sought other methods of calming myself down with herbs, with potions, with drugs, because my first few months at Hogwarts had been a hell purely within my own mind and I was drowning in my attempt to swim through it. How Rhali, the weird Slytherin girl who seemed to have no friends either, had caught me outside one day with Ozzy having a panic attack and told me about some of the almost-illegal calming plants that Neville's kept hidden in his personal greenhouses.

And how it had simply accelerated from there in the pursuit of happiness and relief.

Lily had been quiet after I'd told her, her face blank. At first I wasn't sure if she was angrier with me than she had been before – it's sometimes hard to tell with Lily; she's got an incredible poker face when she doesn't force it – but after a few moments her brow had furrowed, she'd caught her lip between her teeth, and she'd wrapped me in a hug. She'd asked if there was anything she could do. I said no. She'd suggested I tell mum and dad, that I seek professional help. I'd definitely said no. I'd developed a good thing for handling my problems by that point and was actually happy with where I was mentally at that stage. Besides, I'd been using for three years at that point and wasn't inclined to stop any time soon.

It had taken a bit, but eventually Lily had accepted my habit. She, along with Rose, always kept an eye on me, though. I could almost feel them watching me from the Gryffindor table sometimes. I'm pretty sure they've reached some sort of agreement between the two of them, though they never approached me as a united front. The wording of their repeated cautioning in prepared speeches that I "be safe" and "don't let it get out of hand" were too similar for them _not_ to have shared their thoughts.

It hadn't gotten out of hand. It had been my crutch. And generally it had worked splendidly to calm my nerves. Seventh year seemed like it might test the limits of how much calming magic could do – I might preach nonchalance towards my schoolwork, but I'm not that bad; I really would like to pass my units – and I was already blessing the inclination that drove me towards using my Harproot and Happy Gum for what it had afforded me so far.

So Lily knew that her jibe about Scorpius and my junkie status, however offhanded and accurate it may be, was a little cruel. I didn't make her feel ashamed on purpose, but I can't deny it wasn't helpful. At least her incredulity over the friendship seemed to extinguish after that.

I didn't want to leave it how it was, though. A nosy little snot my sister may be, but I do love her. "Is it really that unbelievable?"

Quirking her lips, Lily slowly nodded. "Everyone at the Gryffindor table was shocked. That's _Scorpius_."

"Is it a problem? Is it really that weird?"

I must have sounded slightly worried or something because Lily hastened to reassure me. "No, no it's not a problem. It might be a little weird, true, but not a problem. Al, you're –" She broke off, chewing on her lip in her usual gesture of thoughtfulness. "Look, don't think about what other people say about you –"

"I'm not, really."

'- because you're allowed to be friends with whoever you like –"

"Yeah, I know. It doesn't really bother me."

"- and if you and Scorpius and Rhali and Ozzy have a good thing going, then who are they to judge?"

"Again, not an issue. I don't care all that much." I waved my fingers before Lily's eyes to get her attention long enough for her to actually listen to me. "Scor and I are friends, same as with Rhali and Ozzy. It's no one else's business but ours."

Lily smiled approvingly, an expression eerily similar to that of a proud mother rather than the chiding sister she should be. A moment later, however, her expression became amused. "Scor?"

Cringing, I scratched at the back of my head awkwardly. "Shut up."

"No, seriously, Scor?"

I heaved a long-suffering sigh. There was no escaping an explanation. "Well I had to call him something, right? Scorpius just sounds so pretentious."

"And our Ravenclaw prefect doesn't have a problem with this?" Lily's was obviously fighting back the urge to spread an evil grin.

"Not anymore," I replied. Because he'd initially objected to what he deemed the 'childishness' of the name Scor. It was Rhali, of course, who had set him straight.

"You need a nickname anyway, Scor. We all have them." Ignoring, of course, the fact that she lacked once herself. But then, no one argued with Rhali if they wanted to come out the other side in one piece.

Scorpius had glanced towards me. "Al," he'd said, very pointedly. I wasn't entirely sure if he was requesting my intervention or simply attempting to divert the conversation.

Rhali ignored either possibility. She raised her eyebrows at Scorpius, as though questioning his potential objection. "Don't push me on this subject, Scor. I'll make your life a living hell."

Poor Scorpius had actually looked a little intimidated by Rhali's finality. The memory still made me smile, something that I had to struggle to contain in the face of Lily's amusement.

"Don't you dare say anything, Lily. I'm serious."

"Or what, are you going to tell me off? _You're_ not a prefect?" Lily's eyebrows danced with her taunt.

"No, I'm not," I agreed. "But Scor is, and he's absolutely no-nonsense with younger students. I'm pretty sure he'd whoop your arse for calling him anything by Scorpius or Malfoy."

"He could try," Lily laughed, but for all her teasing, weeks later and she still hadn't tested the waters. Nor said anything more on the subject, for that matter. For someone who loved to gossip, I am blessed that my sister demonstrates a modicum of intelligence and knows when she really needs to keep her mouth quiet.

From Alchemy, Scorpius and I wandered in the general direction of the Great Hall. Because of the small size of our class, we have our face-to-face lessons just before dinner, outside of school hours. I don't mind all that much; at least it's not first thing in the morning.

Just before we parted at the front door – because yes, we might be friends, and the houses at Hogwarts might be fairly fluid, but even Rhali, Ozzy and I have never sat at the same table. We just don't do that sort of thing – Scorpius nudged my shoulder with his own. "Do you have plans for after dinner?"

I paused in step, glancing towards him. "What, you mean other than lying in bed and staring listlessly at the ceiling in an attempt to recover from the onorous burden of attending class?"

Scorpius attempted disapproval but the smile he obviously fought to keep off his face was a bit of a giveaway. "Yes, other than the listless staring."

I pretended to consider for a moment. "No, I think I'm all free. Why?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to head to the library to go over our Potions homework."

I pulled a face. "Homework? Urgh, no thank you."

"Have you already done it?"

I snorted. "Who are you confusing me with, exactly? Of course not. I have better things to do with my time." _Like staring at the ceiling in my dorm and counting the cracks on the ceiling._

Scorpius didn't take offence at my words. In fact, he appeared to take them as an invitation more than anything else. "Better things, I'm sure. How exactly have you survived in school for as long as you have?"

"It's a closely kept secret, Scor. I can't reveal my sources."

It was Scorpius' turn to snort. "Sources. Right. But secrets or not, care to join me? I asked Rhali and she said she might if she could be bothered, but I haven't seen Oscar."

"Ozzy," I corrected absently, because Ozzy _hated_ being called Oscar, as I considered. I _could_ decline, but I am in seventh year and should probably at least pretend to make an effort. It would make Mum happy. "Okay, sure. I've just got to grab my books from the Basement after dinner and I'll catch you up."

"Great," Scorpius replied, satisfied. "I'll meet you there." It was worth the hours of study just to see the delighted expression on Scorpius' face before he strode into the Great Hall. He was smiling more and more often now; I don't know if it's a product of spending time with us, or my the increased exposure to him just affords me more opportunity to see him when he's in a visibly good mood, but it was good to see.

A quick, silent dinner – meatloaf and potato, which basically meant I ate a potato in a jacket by itself – and I quickly departed the Great Hall to head for the Basement. Passing into the atrium, it was almost too perfect that I ran straight into Ozzy coming through the front doors of the castle. Night was just setting in, an icy draft chasing him inside.

"Oh. Hey, Al." Ozzy offered with a smile.

Running my eyes up and down his height, and the heavily rugged up arrangement of his garb, I raised an eyebrow. "What were you doing outside so late?"

"You don't have to look so suspicious," Ozzy grumbled, though the way he shifted from foot to foot suggested he was actively trying to avoid the question. "I'm not doing anything incriminating."

I glanced pointedly over his shoulder as the doors clicked shut behind him. "It's nearly pitch black outside, Ozzy. If anything's suspicious it's you."

Sighing, Ozzy shrugged. He dropped his eyes to his shoes. "It's nothing huge. I'm just…"

"Just?"

Shuffling once more, Ozzy peered up at me, head still tilted downwards. "Promise you won't laugh?"

"Would I laugh at you?"

"Yes."

"True. So really I can't promise anything. But tell me anyway."

Grumbling his disgruntlement, Ozzy seemed to consider my offer for a moment before sighing once more. "You remember how I said I could be an athlete? Or maybe just get into hiking or something?"

I frowned, because I couldn't recall… Oh wait, that was when we were on the Happy Gum a couple of weeks ago. "Yeah. And?"

"And I thought that maybe I'd give it a go."

"What, become an athlete."

"Yeah. Well, no. Maybe. I don't know, I'm just…" He looked terribly awkward as he shifted from foot to foot and I couldn't help but pity him. "I've just started taking up jogging."

I felt my face stiffen in surprise. "You? You're jogging?"

"Is it really so surprising?"

"I'm not surprised," I lied. "It's just unexpected."

Ozzy shifted uncomfortably once more. "Look, it's nothing serious or anything. It's not like I'm going to become a world famous athlete or anything."

"You're nowhere near competitive enough," I agreed.

"Yeah, there is that. It's just…" Ozzy seemed to be nearly writhing in his skin in discomfort, unusual in itself given that he was usually the most relaxed and laid-back of himself, Rhali and I. "I don't know, I just sort of started doing it. Ever since the thought first occurred to me I pretty much go once a day. And I mean, I'm feeling weirdly motivated, you know?"

Any scepticism on my part rapidly disappeared with Ozzy's words. He felt motivated. Well, that eradicated any further objections as to the strangeness on my part. Ozzy had a way about him, a further oddity of his character that I thought was incredibly intriguing. Easy-going though he may be, when Ozzy set his sights upon something he was dedicated. Like becoming my friend; I don't know why he wanted to be so badly in the first place – we were both loners in our first year, but really, there wasn't any other reason that I could see – but in later years he'd told me that he had just wanted to be my friend and wouldn't take no for an answer.

That was just how Ozzy was. He stuck to his resolutions. He was fiercely protective of his mum to the point that he made it his mission to deter dubious-looking boyfriends from snapping her up for the possibility that they might be assholes. When Rhali expressed a desire to undertake a Muggle arithmetic's short-course over the summer after fifth year, he'd been her most avid supporter and had helped to convinced her parents it was a good idea. I still don't know how he managed that. He'd even convinced himself that his best subject was Transfiguration – it's not; he's heaps better at Muggle Studies and Astronomy – but he'd told himself enough times and set himself upon a course for bettering his marks that he'd actually brought them all on par with his better subjects. He'd completely neglected his other subjects, of course, but in fourth year the professors for those three subjects had been really impressed with him. I often wondered how much our experimentation with Muggle drugs that year had to do with his decisiveness.

So if Ozzy told me that he felt "weirdly motivated" to exercise – why, I'll never know – or even to become an Olympic athlete, I wouldn't have put it past him be running for England in a couple of years time. He's just like that.

"Oh, cool. So you've started running now?" I didn't know the why's of his decision, but it was obviously important to him, and I could accept it easily enough because of that.

Ozzy appeared a little cautious at the readiness of my acceptance. He cocked his head and regarded me with a raised eyebrow. "What, no teasing?"

I crossed my arms across my chest. "I'm insulted that you'd think so little of me, Ozzy."

"I'm just basing my suspicions upon precedence."

"Ouch, that hurts! You know I'd support you in any decision you made."

Ozzy laughed. It was a bit of a relief, really. His wariness was starting to worry me, though upon consideration I supposed it was probably an indicator of how much his decision meant to him. Stepping up beside me, Ozzy wrapped an arm around my neck in a friendly hug. "Thanks, Al. That means a lot."

Ozzy and I have always been sort of touchy-feely. I don't know when it started, but more often than not, when we sat beside one another it would be to lean more against one another's shoulder than the seat itself. Ozzy frequently had an arm slung around my neck when we were in the privacy of our Niche. It just felt natural.

Maybe we were both just a bit starved for contact or something. Rhali doesn't like hugs. At all. The one time Ozzy – and I'm so glad it was Ozzy that tried first – had attempted an embrace, she'd decked him. He'd had a really impressive black eye that didn't fade for a week, even with excessive use of Bruise-Away Salve. And that had been only a simple embrace offered as a thank you for his Christmas present.

Neither of us ever tried it again. She was a toothpick, Rhali, but there was a disconcerting force behind her right hook that left us both a little in awe. Rhali had announced, upon discussion, that we should be intimidated; hugs made her feel claustrophobic, apparently, and she wasn't above scratching the eyeballs out of anyone who attempted to trap her in one. She hadn't done so as of yet, but I firmly believed her capable when she declared herself capable of as much.

"So you were running just now?" I asked again, letting Ozzy lean on me. He certainly _smelt_ like he'd been running. How did someone even run in such a heavy jacket? Even in the near winter.

"Yeah, for about an hour or so."

"And you've been doing this for weeks?"

"Yep."

"Huh." I tilted my head thoughtfully. "Well, whatever floats your boat."

Ozzy gave me another grin. "Are you heading into dinner?"

"Just leaving, actually. I'm going to go to the library to study after I grab my books."

"You? Studying?" Ozzy sounded like I'd just declared I was going to take up a broom and try out for the quidditch team; completely irrational and slightly dangerous.

I sighed in exaggerated sorrow. "Scor's having a bad influence on me."

"You're studying with Scor?"

"Yeah, he wanted to get his Potions homework done and asked if I'd join him."

"Just the two of you?"

I shook my head. "Rhali's coming too. Scor said he was going to ask you but didn't know where you were. Want to join?"

Ozzy sucked a tooth thoughtfully. He looked almost pained at the prospect of homework. "Ah…"

"You don't have to, you know. Don't strain yourself or anything."

"No, I probably should." He sounded regretful despite his concession.

"I still don't know why you kept up Potions for your N.E. ."

"For the same reason Rhali did," Ozzy replied absently.

"Yeah? And what's that?"

Ozzy shrugged. "'Cause you do." At my obvious confusion, he clarified. "We were worried you'd fall into a cauldron and drown yourself. When you decided to keep the subject, we could hardly abandon you."

I frowned indignantly up at the fond grin he turned upon me. "Hey, I'm not that bad at potions. Yeong sometimes even says I have potential."

Ozzy smirked, jiggling me slightly with his hugging arm in a gesture of comforting commiseration. "You keep telling yourself that, Al. We made the decision right after we brewed that Draught of Volatility. You nearly gave me a heart attack when you exploded your cauldron, you realise, don't you?"

I cringed guiltily. Fifth year Draught of Volatility; not one of my finest moments. "I hardly did it on purpose."

"Doesn't matter. It still scared the shit out of me." The sound of approaching voices from the Great Hall silenced Ozzy, causing him to abruptly drop his arm from my shoulders and turn to glance warily towards the half-opened doors. When the two third year girls filed through and proceeded to depart from earshot, he continued. "I'm gonna to go and grab something for dinner. I'll meet you in the library?"

"Yeah, sure. See you." I offered him a wave as I turned towards the Basement.

Gathering my books from my dorm, I paused only to consider my parrot throwing cusses at my back before scooping him from his cage and departing once more. He'd been a bit neglected over the past few weeks; I might pretend to be a slacker with my schoolwork and it might not be entirely irrational to consider as much, but I actually do try to learn. Most of the time, anyway.

To the music of Caesar's "hello, lovely" and "so gorgeous, cretin, you're so gorgeous," I made my way through hallways and into the library. It's a dodging act to weave between towering shelves and animated books as the sought their proper placement, but after six years I think I'm rather practiced at it. I kept an eye out as I wove; it was always a bit of a game of hide and seek, the search for where Scorpius' had secreted himself, but I figured if I couldn't find him then my entrance would be indicated by Caesar's chattering. Madame Knuckleston had initially frowned upon the attendance of my little broken record into her library, but upon being introduced to his tendency to offer kisses to the fingers of anyone who chanced to present him their hand she had become enamoured.

Rhali and Scorpius were already spread across two tables in the far corner of the library, books propped open and quills in hand. Although, I noted, Scorpius was scribbling at a decidedly faster pace than Rhali. For her part, Rhali appeared more interested in picking gunk out of the nib of her quill.

"Hello, little cretin, watcha lookin' at?" Caesar greeted them both, punctuating his query with a wolf whistle. It served to attract both Scorpius and Rhali's attention, he staring blankly while she grinned widely.

"Hello, gorgeous, how are you? Has Ally been keeping you all to himself, locked in his room?" Rising to her feet and holding out a hand, Caesar hesitated only a moment before sidling onto Rhali's finger. He glanced at me almost questioningly as though unsure of whether he should be leaving my shoulder, but I just nudged him towards her. Rhali cradled him against her chest before offering him her own shoulder. For someone who hates physical contact, she's really quite affectionate and snuggly with the bird.

"You brought your parrot?" Scorpius asked dubiously, as though the question needed clarification.

I settled into the chair beside him and begun pulling my books from my bag. "He was cursing at me when I was leaving the dorm. How could I leave him?"

"And his name's 'Caesar', not 'parrot'," Rhali added pointedly. She'd gotten over her initial aversive wariness around Scorpius that had, so I had interpreted from Scorpius, appeared more than a little threatening and bordering on hatred. But in saying that, Rhali would always be Caesar's knight in shining armour; she'd jump to his defence in a heartbeat.

Scorpius, for his part, always seemed uneasy around the parrot. I suspected it had more to do with his complete lack of understanding about how to respond to his presence than any particular dislike or anything. "Regardless, I fail to see how he could assist our homework."

I shrugged, falling into a spare seat beside Scorpius and turning my bag upside down to shake out an ink bottle. I received three, two of which tumbled to the floor with little glass clinks. _Please don't be broken_. "He's our moral support. Our mascot," I replied as I ducked under the table to retrieve the little phials.

"I would have thought you'd be kindred spirits you two, Scorpius, what with him sharing the name of a blabbermouth similar to yourself." Even without seeing her face, I knew Rhali was smirking.

Surfacing and reseating myself, I saw that Rhali appeared to have abandoned her homework and nib-cleaning in favour of raining attention onto Caesar and jabbing Scorpius with barbed remarks. Caesar looked like he was quite enjoying himself, though always kept an eye on me. I'm not being cocky when I say that I'm his favourite person. He's a parrot, of course he has a favourite. He just likes me most because I happen to spend the most time with him. And feed him sunflower seeds when I'm not supposed to.

Scorpius didn't even respond to the teasing insult. "I thought you said he wasn't named for the Roman orator."

"He's not," I confirmed. "He's named after the salad."

"He liked the chicken bits the most*," Rhali added. "Obviously he was a predator in a past life."

Scorpius' forehead crinkled in a slightly uneasy frown. "Right," he said slowly, and made a deliberate turn back towards his homework to began scribbling once more. Though scribbling is hardly the word I'd use to describe Scorpius' handwriting. It looked almost calligraphic. I've never had a problem with my own writing but next to his mine looks like a spider fell into my inkwell and dragged its half-drowned body across the parchment in an attempt to compose its dying words.

I briefly glanced over at Scorpius' work as I dipped my quill into ink and frowned. He was annotating a potion's recipe. "That's not our homework due Friday."

"No," Scorpius replied distractedly. "I'm finished."

"Do we have something else I'm forgetting about?"

"No," Scorpius repeated. "I'm just taking notes on some additional readings I'm doing."

I peered at him sidelong for a moment before nodding acceptance and turning towards my own work. Rhali snorted and muttered a very audible "nerd" beneath her breath before once more turning her full attention to scratching Caesar's neck. I tend to agree, though apparently idn't hold quite the same negative connotations to the term that Rhali did.

Scorpius loved potions. It was as simple and as complex as that. He loved it with a passion, loved mixing ingredients to produce an end product, loved the finesse of accurate weighing and measuring, the therapeutic motions of crushing and grinding. I know this because he'd told me. At length and several times, too. He would live and breathe potions if he could, I'd wager.

Which is why it was similarly complicated. I hadn't grasped the full meaning of the discussion with Yeong when I'd overheard in the dungeons all those weeks ago. Scorpius _loved_ potions, but he wasn't pursuing a career in Potioneering, nor anything even remotely related to the art. Instead, he had set himself on a course headed into the ministry, into politics and business, into oration and presentation and building advantageous connections for his Dad's company. And he did this because he was supposed to.

It left me with a slightly painful twinge in my chest at the thought, and, as I scribbled down answers to the questions pertaining to the wide and varied distribution and properties of magical minerals in south-east Asia, I couldn't help casting a sympathetic glance towards the newest of my friends. Empathetic, really, because I saw a little of my own situation in that which he'd evidently fallen into. Because yes, while the modern Wizarding world promoted autonomy and 'pursing the life that truly suits you', the Malfoy's were as much confined to societal expectations as my own family was. However, while I had once felt obliged to follow in Dad's footsteps and become an Auror, protector of Wizarding society, or an idol on the quidditch pitch like Mum, Scorpius was pushed towards the life of an upstanding wizard of old blood, to pursue the respectable and noteworthy position of a business master.

The biggest difference between us was that while I'd diverged from the path set before me and already largely broken astray from the speculations and underhanded suggestions that I 'get back on track' by the media, Scorpius was still held in the grips of them. It saddened me, really, to see my friend feeling like he was being forced into a career he neither loved nor wanted to love.

Not to mention the fact that he'd apparently completely turned aside from his love of potions, even as a hobby. Besides the wistful references to how he 'used to' love potions, descriptions of exactly what he 'had loved' about Potioneering, and the silent yet studious 'extra readings' he undertook, he'd divided himself from his passion.

Maybe it was just easier that way, to make a clean break than to have the painful reminder hanging over him the whole time.

"What's wrong? Do you need help with something?"

I glanced towards Scorpius once more, blinking at the suggestion. It was only then that I'd realised I hadn't written a word in about five minutes. "Oh, um… no, I'm fine."

Scorpius stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Well, if you need it, just let me know, alright?"

I offered him a smile, which he absently returned, and nodded. That was another thing I'd found about my newfound friendship with Scorpius. Initially, he had been almost obsessive about encouraging Rhali, Ozzy and I into further studiousness. I could see it almost pained him to watch us whinge and bemoan our way through half-heartedly completing the homework that held little interest to us. He'd tried – _really_ tried – for about a week until Rhali had snapped.

"Listen here, Malfoy. If you have a problem with my work ethic, or with any of our work ethics, you can bugger off. In case you haven't noticed, we've all done just fine with our grades up until now. If you want to be our friend, that's great, but don't try and force your own priorities upon us, alright?"

Scorpius had looked suitably cowed by her rant. I couldn't blame him; I almost felt in the wrong as I sat beside Scorpius merely because the general direction of her tirade washed over me before it crashed atop him. And that was with the fact that she'd actually been _defending_ me.

It worked, though, and Scorpius appeared to have dropped any attempt at forcing his 'help' and 'perfectionist tendencies' upon us, as Rhali called them. At least at first he'd seemed to physically struggle with the effort to restrain his objections when myself, or Rhali, or Ozzy had openly resisted working and claiming we would do it later. He'd gotten better, though, less concerned or at least more adept at hiding that concern. I only occasionally caught him glancing at me a little despairingly now.

Yet even with that, he still offered help when we needed it, and other than Rhali – stubborn as she was – we accepted it. There was no denying that Scorpius was a better student than the other three of us put together – I honestly don't know how he put up with 'studying' with us; we were just as likely to doodle over the pages or fall asleep over our books as finish any work – and even Rhali had shown her own recognition by copying off mine and Ozzy's work that which we'd essentially copied off Scorpius. A backhanded compliment, to be true, but I think Scorpius recognised it anyway.

Ozzy joined us soon after, wedging himself into the seat beside Rhali and me and pulling out his own books. There wasn't a huge amount of conversation – I think the silent inclination of Scorpius rubbed off on the rest of us – but it was still companionable. We actually got all of the work we'd intended to do completed for a change, a change that was becoming more and more frequent of late.

Scorpius spent most of the evening with his 'extra readings' and I couldn't help but watch him a little out of the corner of my eye, even when Ozzy elbowed me to urge me from my sidelong staring. Was I really that obvious? But even if I was, I couldn't help myself. He didn't smile while reading or anything, but there was something about Scorpius' expression when he studied potions that made me feel warm and oddly happy. It was a gorgeous expression, one that only accentuated the fine lines of his face, the straightness of his nose, the hard set of his jaw and the curve of his lips. He sort of reminded me a bit of Mitch, my first boyfriend of sorts. Maybe that was what I found so attractive about him.

But admittedly a bit smitten as I was, watching him also saddened me just a little. I truly wished he would revise his commitment for abandoning his passion for potions. If I could have determined a way to redirect him, to assure him that no matter what anyone said he was _allowed_ to do what he loved as well as work for his career then I would have.

But it didn't feel like my place. Friends though I now thought we were, I just wasn't sure I could take than step. Maybe in future, but for now… It was satisfying just to watch him so happy, even if it was only an accidental happiness.

Because just to see him smile, even if just a little smile, was enough. I found that I really, _really_ liked it when Scorpius smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A bit of a slow chapter, I'm sorry. But it will certainly pick up pace in the next chapter, I swear. I've written the draft for the chapter and all, so it shouldn't be far off.
> 
> And also, just if anyone's interested, my reference to chicken-eating parrots is actually based on first adopted my own parrot when we found him in the middle of a very public leisure centre digging into a discarded piece of chicken. The cannibal! But yes, it does happen.
> 
> If you have any comments, questions, suggestions or criticisms, please let me know. I'd love to hear what you think of it :)


	7. I Really Shouldn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm feeling like a bit of a broken record here, but I feel I must apologise once more for the wordiness of the first bit of this chapter. Verbose, yes, but I feel like it was necessary. maybe?  
> And also, a WARNING to anyone who feels a bit uncomfortable with mature descriptions. This chapter contains the first of numerous depictions of sexual situations. If you don't like it... erm, maybe this fic might not be for you?

_~Scorpius~_

It was a strange feeling, to be content and satisfied with life even when your dreams and understanding of what _should_ be are crashing down around you. Strange, but possible nonetheless.

Though I had long since resigned myself to my future, following in my fathers footsteps into the Department of Magical Cooperation and eventually filling his seat as CEO of LeFay Connected, it had always seemed a distant future, something far on the horizon. I maintained my love of academia, my studiousness, and revelled in every glimmer of knowledge I could acquire. Simply enough, I _loved_ knowing. Everything. If I could, I would spend the rest of my life learning, seeking, unearthing the unknown. It was part of the appeal of Potioneering; the chance to experiment, to mix materials and ingredients in a hitherto untried combination and create something new, different, interesting, was captivating. And somehow, in my younger years, I'd assumed that I would be able to pursue my passion for knowledge seeking, for experimenting, while somehow simultaneously investing myself wholly into my father's business.

I'm older now. I know that such a juggling act is impossible, would lead to incomplete investment in my career. So I quashed such desires.

It had taken a while, but I'd gradually come to accept my role. And though I loved Potioneering – often loved it more than I realised, I think – I wouldn't shunt my future role in the business and political world, the role I'm _supposed_ to fill, to the side for my own selfish desires. Desires that, I will never admit, I still cannot fully shake.

LeFay Connected was a young business. My father had built her from the ground, from flimsy foundations, in the early days after the war. He had barely taken a step into the ministry at the time, was at the bottom rungs of the Department of Magical Cooperation. It didn't stop him; he used what tenuous connections remained to him, bargained and coerced upstanding individuals of high-status families, and embroiled them in a fast handhold of mutual understanding and like-minded goals.

It had been hard at first, my father had said though not in so many words. Draco Malfoy was an outcast of society for his unwilling role in the war. And yet despite the stain upon his character, somehow he pulled through and established what was today one of the leading firms in magical financial support and funding Britain had ever seen. His steady rise in the Department of Magical Cooperation grew further with the corresponding growth of his business; LeFay Connected stepped into the international world and acted as the funder for British Ministry of Magic. And they _ruled_ in terms of international negotiations, leaving corresponding countries in their monetarily-sound dust.

It is only recently – not quite five years ago – that my father has gained a seat upon the Board of International Magical Cohesion. Honestly, if I really considered it, I was surprised it has taken that long. He'd been a big name in the Wizarding world, if only fairly exclusively 'Wizarding' for the irrelevance to Muggle society at large. I think it was probably because the Board had what was largely considered to be life-appointed seating, with directors passing on their seat to their successors only grudgingly or by unanimous consensus from the entire rest of the Board. I didn't know the specifics of why Father was appointed a seat, but I wouldn't have be surprised if it was afforded due to pressure from fellow Board members. Draco Malfoy _needed_ a seat, needed financial status, his voice, because his voice was incredibly loud, forceful and proficient.

I'm quite certain he effectively runs the Board now.

I respected my father hugely for his achievements. It was awe-inspiring and a little intimidating how he managed to pull off one of the most dexterous political manoeuvres in British modern history. I respected him, and that respect in turn further quashed any slight rebellious inclination within me to pursue my hobby of potions. How could I _possibly_ secrete myself into some experimental lab or apothecary, as far removed from the ministry as physically possible, when my father had worked so hard to reach where he was to this day?

He was still climbing, of course. I doubted Father would ever cease his attempts to haul himself ever higher, not until he was Minister, Head of Department, and Prime Judge of the Board all in one. I think he had it in his head that such a position was actually in his future.

The thing was, though, I wouldn't be surprised if he actually attained it. And I'd do what I could to help him on his way there.

So when I stepped into the Great Hall for lunch on Saturday, not quite two weeks from the end of term, and was nearly assaulted by my father's giant eagle owl, and I saw the silver and black seal, I bit back my sigh. Silver and green meant normal correspondence; silver and _black_ meant it was something of business. A little more formal.

I folded myself onto the nearest bench at the Ravenclaw table, dodging with practiced efficiency the just-hard-enough-to-be-painful pecks of the eagle owl, and snatched the letter from its leg. It gave me a hard, black-eyed stare, a very pointed stare that I knew meant "he wants a reply, and you'd better give him one or I'll eat your nose", and I swear it nodded curtly in reply to my agreement before leaping into the air once more.

I cracked the seal on the thick parchment. No, it was vellum, because of course my father would use ridiculously expensive material to write a letter to his largely unconcerned son. I suppose if he was attempting to set the scene for any passing onlooker he was going about it the right way. If he was trying to prove something, it wasn't to me.

I already thought him something on par with a demigod.

_Scorpius,_

_I write to inform you of the final overview of the schedule for your Christmas break so that you may ensure you have sufficient time to manage your study timetable before returning home. Don't roll your eyes; you know that multiple revisions are necessary if you want to avoid another social disaster like two years ago._

I closed my eyes briefly. I didn't roll them of course; I have no doubt my father would somehow know if I did. I haven't actually experienced a proper 'holiday' since I was ten because they've always been largely cluttered with business meeting and balls, conferences and dos that my father for some reason felt was integral for me to attend.

Or… well, events that I had insisted upon attending in my younger years, only to find myself compelled to continue that attendance in successive years. The novelty wore off quickly although, looking back upon it, I supposed it probably had been beneficial, even if I hadn't needed to start quite so early. I'm certainly not ignorant when it came to societal etiquette in a formal setting, and that knowledge in itself afforded a certain level of satisfaction.

He was right, too, about revisions. My father had left me largely to my own devices when I was fifteen, allowing me some slight leeway in terms of deciding to what I attended. I'd botched it, about as spectacularly as I could. Because when my father "left me to it" what he really meant was "you give it a go trying to coordinate all of the meets and greets you're supposed to". I hadn't heard that part of the instructions. The bells of 'Freedom!' and 'Take It Easy' resounded a little too loudly.

_To begin, the Gringely House has requested your prompt accompaniment to their party for Young Witches and Wizards of Britain. I am sure you have not forgotten; it will be held the evening of your return. And please, I am aware that Mildred doesn't hold your fancy, but at least attempt civility when she clings to you like a leech._

I smothered a snort, lifting my gaze skyward. My father was always proper… in public. His composure was one that was modelled from. I'd read about it in the papers: "be as calm and cool as Draco Malfoy"; it was a common analogy in the Wizarding world. No one knew that he was incredibly dry and at times sarcastically humorous when he wasn't living up to the expectations that accompanied his public façade. He didn't pander to _me_ in his words, though; he saved that for the directors and ministers, the partners and subordinates. Even his in-laws, because one can never been too firmly seated on their 'good side'.

Shaking my head, I turned back to the letter.

_I've reasoned with Beverly on your behalf however; your 'presence is requested at home' the following morning, if you understand. I thought it likely that you would care to escape from spending the entire night at the mercy of Britain's most predatory mother-daughter pair._

_The 'request' is not entirely a farce, however. Lady Masseux requires your assistance again for the morning after. I understand she was rather taken with your oration last summer, though I haven't the faintest clue why she feels it necessary for you specifically to recite her poetry. I will send a copy in my next letter; please be so kind as to memorise within a comma before your performance. And do attempt to attend to her words throughout the day. I know she is want to drill her accompaniments on her drivel of conversation at the close of the night. I would not like to see my son at her mercy should she choose to rain down terror upon him for not fully attending her._

_We are to spend Christmas Eve at the Yorkpins, and the morning of with the extended House of Quillese's. I am sure I don't need to remind you to avoid Harvey; I spoke to Peony and she still claims he's recovering from your last flooring performance. Did I ever tell you I was quite impressed? Leaving the poor fool a bumbling mess in such a way that even his father was unaware of your interaction was most satisfying to behold. I never much liked the man. You do me a service._

_As for post Christmas, we are to make the usual rounds, but I have dwindled it to only a day at each estate. Remming, Hardwood, Esterman, then Koinoffer. We'll have to coordinate a visit to your grandparents as well, but only for Grandnana and Grandfather this year. Your mother's parents, I believe, wish to join us at the Quillese's – Merlin knows why – and as such the schedule is eased a little. If you wish to do so further, perhaps a letter to your Grandnana? A token pleasantry if your would, and hold off on the guilt-tripping. Do not think I'm unaware that you sweet-talked your way from the last visit through of her; I'm not as oblivious as you might think, Scorpius._

_Aside from formal appearances, the only additional inclusion is the New Years Eve dinner with the Board. I have a meeting with the Board the following day – the last of the year – of which I have managed to include you. As my successor, it was not particularly difficult to prevail upon my colleagues the importance of your attendance._

At my father's words I almost snorted again. Prevailed upon them? More like demanded of them. He owned the Board in all but name.

_I have the minutes of the previous three meetings on hand for you to study beforehand, as in particular the subject of the next International Communicative Address will undoubtedly arise once more and it would not do for you to be behind on the developments and plans for the presentation. Who knows, perhaps you could see something in the notes that I have overlooked? It is most likely that the following day will be monopolised by your aunt and cousins, though of course they have not confirmed with any certainty. I would overlook it and cast it from your schedule if your mother was not so adamant, but you know how she is with anything that involves your aunt._

_I will expect your attendance at the Board dinner. Again, do not roll your eyes, child, I can feel you on the verge of doing so even as I write._ _I will be lenient; should you so desire to bring a guest – I have not heard of any current partners on your part, but then you never informed me of your exploits with Miss Winfrey until after its termination, so I wouldn't be surprised – but such leniency entails your cooperation on the night. I would rather you not run rings around Lord Hermenway again, if you please. I am the one who must deal with the aftermath._

_You'll be happy to hear that the final days of the holidays are yours to enjoy. And by enjoy, I'm sure you're likely to spend an inordinate amount of time with your graduated friends. If you would, please organise a time schedule and send it to me; make sure you include a brief stay at Drisella's – she sent me a missive not two days ago requesting leave from your schedule for as much – and a visit to Tatsuya's house. I would much appreciate the opportunity to revisit my conversation of his grandparent's financial contribution to LeFay with his father once more. Besides, I feel like the boy is a good influence on you; you could learn from him, if you actually listened to him rather than taking his words at face value. He's rather amusing to consider, actually. Just like his father in his societal dexterity. It's really quite wonderful to witness._

_Send a reply with any questions you have as promptly as possible, though I can't see any cause for objection. And ensure you use the parchment I sent you in the fall and the green wax this time. A pointed stare can turn aside questioning gazes, but I'd rather not have Julius Kurk chirping questions at me over the shoddiness of the letters sent by my correspondents. I'm sure he feels I readily communicate with some back-alley dealer after your last letter. What did you do, smear it with gravy and dip it in pumpkin juice before sending it?_

_Regards,_

_Your father_

I folded the vellum loosely into my robe pocket before rolling my eyes, because at least with the letter out of sight my father was potentially less likely to be aware of the fact I was doing so. I shook my head. Pumpkin juice? Really? It wasn't that bad. The fools of first year who had accidentally bumped it from my hands and then proceeded to dance upon it in distress at the "accident, it was an accident!" of running into me on my way to the owlery had admittedly been regrettable, but not bad enough for me to rewrite the letter. I'd charmed most of the stains from it anyway.

My father was such a drama queen, though the knowledge of such made me admire him no less. Even with the weariness and faint tinge of annoyance that rippled through me at the list of obligations I felt as much. I had hoped to have more than a day or two to myself, if not to study then perhaps to spend some time with Al, Rhali and Ozzy, but it was looking unlikely. I had commitments to uphold, and even seeing my old friends – and to-be future colleagues and correspondents – was a duty I must fulfil.

I didn't resent my father. At least, not really. We were close, though perhaps not as close as I was with my mother, and though he still jokingly calls me 'child' and would always see me as such, he was something of my friend. I felt like I had acquired at least some degree of the respect from him that he has from me. And for all that he pushed me into developing my public visage early, paved the way for my future career by familiarising my face with the media, I knew that he only had my best interests at heart. Before I became a teenager and actually started thinking for myself, I whole-heartedly longed to be a clone of my father. I just didn't know at such a young age that in becoming such I would lose any individuality myself.

It was a hard decision to make. Though, in reality, it was never really a decision. I might have been afforded the duty of publicly announcing my future intentions, but it was those around me, family and otherwise, who held my directional reins.

It had hit me a bit like a ton of bricks at the beginning of my seventh school year, I'd admit. And it was probably the words of my friend Phillippe that did it to me. It was barely a day before heading back to school when he'd dropped by the house.

Phillippe was indeed my friend, no doubt. He was similar to me in that he followed in his father's footsteps, yet different because his mother had been opposed to the decision. It was solely upon him which direction he could take, and even his father was a little surprised that he'd followed him into his business. Phillippe wasn't exactly someone who reeked of the hardness of a lawyer. He was soft faced and quietly spoken, pale and dark haired with that hint of baby-fluff still at his hairline that I was sure he'd have his entire life. But it was all deceptive; Phillippe was brutal when it came to getting his own way. The entire student body of Hogwarts was apparently made aware of that fact on the first day of his first year, when he'd been sorted into Slytherin as opposed to the Ravenclaw of his father.

It was explosive. And hence, he'd spent more time with the Ravenclaws than the Slytherins, becoming an honorary member of their house and only losing some of his hot air when he finally realised that, really, houses didn't mean all that much nowadays. He even spent the majority of his time in the Ravenclaw common room – an act that apparently would have floored the students of the school two decades ago but everyone barely batted an eyelid at.

As an opinionated person, Phillippe was always prepared to verbalise his thoughts. So when he walked in on me revising sixth year content for Potions the day before the end of the holidays he didn't hold his tongue. I was surprised he even saw what subject I was studying so swift was his verbal response.

"Scorpius, what are you doing?"

I'd finished my sentence before slowly raising my eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Why are you studying Potions?"

I'd frowned. Phillippe was an admirable enough student at school until he'd graduated the previous year. He wasn't one to shirk studying for leisure. "Well, Phillippe, unlike some people, I still attend school and I'm quite taken with the idea of achieving Outstandings in all my subjects."

A frown had creased Phillippe's brow and a faint flush his cheeks. Not in embarrassment; I didn't think Phillippe could actually get embarrassed. No, if anything it was in indignation at my admittedly sarcastic tone. "What I meant, _Scorpius_ , was why are you still taking Potions classes? I had thought you would drop it for your final year."

I'd slowly lowered my quill, could feel my own frown settling. "And why would I do that?"

Phillippe didn't sit down upon the spare seat at my desk as he did for a long-winded conversation. No, he remained standing, an indicator that his opinionated tirade was merely a passing spiel on his way to eventual farewell and departure. He'd folded his arms across his chest instead. "It's fairly obvious, isn't it? Potions isn't going to help you in the future. Why would you jeopardise exceptional grades in your other subjects to invest in one so redundant."

I'd felt an upwelling of affront and protectiveness for my favourite subject, and couldn't hide my own indignation. "Redundant? Hardly. Every subject is useful, Phillippe."

"Perhaps in other industries, but for you? No." Phillippe shook his head firmly. "Trust me, I've only actually been working with my father for the last few weeks and I can already tell you the subjects that would be most beneficial to law. Charms. Arithmancy. Muggle Studies. Ancient Runes. History. Defence. Maybe Transfiguration, but unlikely. Everything else? Useless."

I'd deliberately taken up my quill, pointedly dipping it into my inkwell. "Be that as it may, I quite enjoy Potions. I find it soothing and therapeutic to read recipes, and I think that such a relaxant would be beneficial in the upcoming year."

Phillippe had given a humourless burst of laughter. "Trust me, you'll regret taking on the extra work. I know you've a taste for study, Scorpius, but N.E. are full on. And you're taking ten? Don't you think perhaps you've bitten off more than you can chew?"

I'd ignored my friend, turning back to my Potions notes and pretending to read through them. Not a word registered before my eyes.

Beside me, Phillippe had sighed. "Whatever. On your head be it. I'm off. I'll see you later. Catch you at Christmas or the New Year." His footsteps were nearly silent as they'd crossed the rug and he didn't close the door behind him as he'd departed.

I'd kept up Potions, despite what Phillippe had said. I'd kept it up, but with his words ringing through my mind I'd dropped the extra-curricular studies I'd undertaken with Yeong. He'd offered me the opportunity to accompany him in some of his brewing when I was in fifth year and – ignorant child that I'd been – I'd leapt at the chance to take on the extra workload. It had hurt horribly to fall back to only the compulsory coursework, but it was the only way I could even begin to satisfy my conscience while retaining my hobby.

All of my old friends were like that. All of them pompous in their worldliness in their own way, exalted with the experience they'd gained in the short time since they'd graduated. Oh, most of them – particularly Helen and Tatsuya – were very tongue in cheek as they professed their superiority to my simple-minded self, but that didn't stop them. My friends could be trying at times.

Or at least, my _old_ friends could be trying. They always spoke of our future careers in the ministry, in our parent's businesses. They always emphasised placing career and boosting one's position over taking it easy and enjoying the little things. Even Helen, the quiet, friendly, soft-spoken girl, enforced the importance of diving straight into her mother's business, even if she had to start off as a receptionist rather than a solicitor.

I supposed that, given their drive, their family lives, the expectations they had set for themselves and that had at times been set upon them, I couldn't blame them. Still, I had to wonder.

Not that I ever had wondered before. But now… there were my _other_ friends.

Al, Rhali and Ozzy were… entirely different. Entirely different, and absolutely fantastic because of it. They took the expectations, the sceptical glances and muttered suggestions, twisted them into a pretzel and threw them out the window. Because no one told them what they _should_ be doing, not even – as their recreational drug habits suggested - when it concerned the bigger picture and natural precautions. It was like a breath of fresh air. No, it was like a breath of that Harproot that Al had introduced me to not so long ago. Refreshing, soothing, and remarkably leaving me with a clear head.

Rhali was not a typical witch. She was atrocious at Transfiguration, even worse at Charms, and I was fairly certain only passed at least half of her subjects because she flew so low under the radar that the teachers just expected she would have to be good enough. I personally didn't feel that the simple act of not blowing up the classroom really afforded such confidence in her abilities, but apparently the professors did. She even got fairly good marks. Well, not _good_ , but not bad either. Average. Which was, she claimed, good enough for her. Rhali's personal mantra for school studies was 'a pass is a pass', and she stuck to her minimalistic approach like a Sticking Charm.

No, Rhali was not a 'magical' person, if such a label could be afforded to a witch. Her tastes ran more towards the logical and theoretical, but not in reference to the subjects offered at Hogwarts. Arithmetics. That was Rhali's focus. Apparently she took Muggle courses in her holiday period, and read mathematics books for fun. _For fun_. I couldn't comprehend that, but then I had never been a particularly numerical person. Rhali, though, when she spoke numbers it was like she became engrossed in another world. It was so strange, to watch her fall into animation and enthusiasm as she never exhibited otherwise. She actually had high marks in Arithmancy, some of the highest in our year; I'm sure she could have achieved higher if she actually put some active effort into it.

Ozzy was similarly not really a typical wizard. He was better than Rhali in classwork, yet seemed similarly uninvested. He was adept at magic, but it just didn't seem to interest him. Ozzy was an encyclopaedia for Muggle Studies – apparently his mother was something of a Muggle lover to the point where she sought their company exclusively - and had a competency in Astronomy that I'd only been able to manage through rigorous study. He was a fair hand at Transfiguration, too, but Al said that was mostly because he'd decided to push himself to be good at it.

Because that was Ozzy; he was all about autonomy, about his own opinion, and driven solely by his own degree of motivation. If not from his classwork, his apparently newfound dedication to cardio was example enough. He now spent nearly two hours jogging a day, sometimes more, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. I admired his commitment, even if it was a little unnecessary; what was he even doing it for? Health and fitness? An enjoyable pastime? Or was Al's joking suggestions about the Olympics actually valid?

I didn't know, but Ozzy's commitment was admirable in an entirely different way to that of my older friends. He didn't care about public face or what anyone else thought of him; he ran because he wanted to. And for whatever reason, it was leaving its mark on his body. Ozzy had gained muscle tone that he hadn't possessed before. Still thin, he appeared leaner than the bony thinness of Al or Rhali. He looked healthy in an entirely different way, and I could believe that he actually _wanted_ to run. I admired him for that; I'm not unfit, playing quidditch as I did, but the sort of fitness Ozzy was developing was different entirely to my own.

And then there was Al.

Of all of my new friends, I probably felt closest to Al. No, not probably, for there was not really any question about it. I truly liked spending time with him; he was dryly funny and spoke more in sarcasm than in plain truths. He readily welcomed my company whenever I felt the urge to join him, whether it be in class or outside of it, and unlike Rhali – who still at times resolutely refused to speak to me in public – he answered me when I talked to him.

More than that, we actually held some of the same interests when it came to classwork, more than I shared with Ozzy and Rhali. Though, upon considering that, I suppose it was a little hard for me to share my passion for study with the pair of them when they actively avoided discussing as much. He was actually quite strong magically – "a gift bestowed by his generous parents" he always claimed sarcastically – even if his theoretical left a bit to be desired. He had a knack for just pushing his magic hard enough that it caved and produced the outcome he wanted. Sort of like a dog coached to heel. It was a little astounding to watch; I'd been quite shocked the first time I'd actually seen it myself. Who knew that, at the back of the classroom for the last six years, there'd been such a display of magical strength and I hadn't even noticed? If only he actually cared to practice a bit more than in his practical lessons, I'm sure he'd be far more adept.

But even more than that, Al was a genius in Herbology. I didn't know where he learned it – well, I did; having an Herbologist for a godfather is sort of a give away – but he seemed to simply _know_ things. To understand them in a way to I like to think I understood Potions. I'd always found Herbology interesting, mostly because of its applicability to Potions, but Al's enthusiasm was definitely encouraging my favour of the subject.

More than that, as my interest grew in Herbology, I discovered something of an interest in Potions in Al too. Maybe it was just like me, that the relevance of Potions to Herbology sparked his interest, but for whatever reason he became someone that I could talk to about my hobby, about my discarded passion, and would reply with relative enthusiasm and educated replies. It was a bit of a relief, really. None of my friends in the past had shown an interest in Potions to the degree that I'd often surprisingly noted was my own. Surprisingly because I'd never had anyone to share it with.

Al always listened, though. Even when he was elbows deep in a pot of fertiliser, he would always listen to me if I wanted to talk about Potions. Or just to talk. I found that I always sought out the shorter boy with the weird braid and his noisy parrot. I found his company satisfying, that I increasingly sought it out, and had reached the point where just the sight of Hufflepuff Potter was enough to bring a smile to my face, a warmth to my chest. Just the simple act of seeing him, of knowing someone was there to talk to, eased some of the stress that had hounded me since Phillippe's words before term, that which had so quickly driven me to exhaustion when school began.

I hadn't realised how much I'd missed talking to people that were more than mere acquaintances until then.

Maybe I had been lonely, and that was why I was enjoying their company. Or maybe my friends were just so different to everything I'd been brought up with, everything that was expected of my future, of me, that it allowed me a momentary, rejuvenating breath before diving make into the coursing river of my life.

As I levered lunch onto my plate – it was actually fairly decent today; was that duck? – I glanced around the hall for any of the three of them. Tables weren't specifically set anymore, except for at feasts, but even so Al, Rhali and Ozzy never sat with each other at mealtimes. I didn't know why; perhaps they didn't like talking to anyone while eating? They certainly never conversed with anyone that sat around them unless expressly spoken to. I know because I've watched. I'd watched them enough to know that Ozzy always greeted potential conversers with a small smile that was friendly enough and somehow still managed to deter their attempts. That Al would purse his lips slightly, hold off until just before they repeated their question before answering shortly with a completely blank expression. And Rhali I knew it would take exactly three attempts at conversation before she either sighed, rolled her eyes and replied or simply stood up from the table and left.

People seemed less inclined to talk to Rhali for some _unfathomable_ reason. A shame, really. Though she still intimidated me – a lot – she was actually quite good company.

Al wasn't at the Hufflepuff table, which was a bit unexpected. He quite often sat with a bowl of whatever chopped salad or vegetables were available for the day and more often than not would pull a Herbology book from his bag to read. Apparently, much to Rhali's exasperation, he'd been occasionally guilty of spending too long looking at "pictures of his scribbled plants" and been late to class. Not that I had noticed particularly, but I could believe that.

Ozzy wasn't at the Gryffindor table, either, which wasn't so unexpected. Ozzy tended to ghost into the Great Hall, eat, and leave with a similarly shadowy presence. A lot of the time I didn't even notice him arrive or leave. He was simply there. Not today, though.

Rhali, was, however, and she looked to have terrified a second year Ravenclaw that was sitting a few feet down the bench and nearly in the lap of his Slytherin friend. It could have been something she'd said, or maybe just the intensity with which she was stabbing her peas. I certainly wouldn't like to have been at the mercy of her fork. The performance would have disconcerted me to see in the past if I had taken the time to notice, but now, even with the residual intimidation that I doubted I'd ever fully shake, I found it a little funny.

I was on the verge of rising to my feet and approaching her, to at least reassure the Ravenclaw boy that she wasn't about to spring to her feet and commit homicide with the tableware, when an owl soared overhead and dropped to the table before me.

 _What is this? Lunch is the hour for mail today?_ Weekends were more lenient when it came to the post, but it was still a little odd to receive even one letter after breakfast. It gained more than a few glances and one half-amused half-sympathetic smile from Winona down the length of the table, all of which I pointedly ignored.

The beautiful barn owl, feathers immaculately groomed, peered up at me with intelligent black eyes as it shuffling slightly, edging towards me across the cluttered table. Holding out a hand, I flicked my fingers in indication of reception and the owl dutifully stuck its leg out and allowed me to remove the letter. The instant it was loose, the bird flapped its wings, shed a pillow's worth of down, and took off. I ignored it and turned to the letter.

It was from Helen. Of course it was from Helen. No one else would have such a resplendent delivery bird.

_Dear Scorpius,_

_I hope I find you well and that your N.E. are not as of yet too trying. I recall my own final year with a cringe; I'm not as academically inclined as you, to be sure, but even so I doubt that it can be easy for you. I'll warrant you're looking forward to the end!_

_On that note, I come to the reason I'm writing you. I've recently had a visit from Phillippe; his training has taken him into finance at the moment, so he's been spending some time under my father to learn the basics of economic business. Anyway, he stopped by my office yesterday afternoon for a brief chat and you came up as a topic of conversation._

_I only voice my worries because I care for you, Scorpius, but Phillippe has drawn my attention to a concerning fact. You seem to be undertaking all of the subjects you were enrolled in last year. Ten N.E. , Scorpius? That is an awful lot. An impossible amount, many would say_

_You do realise that many of the subjects you'll be taking won't hold any relevance to your future career? I don't mean to rain upon your love of studying; we all know how much you enjoy it. But you'll drown yourself, Scorpius._

_Would you perhaps consider lightening your load? I understand that you still want to achieve as many N.E. as possible, but do you think it might be beneficial to drop one or two subjects? Perhaps Alchemy, or Herbology, or even Potions, though I know you love it so. It's only that those three are rather redundant when considering your future. You wouldn't want to jeopardise those that will be beneficial for your career, though in saying that perhaps it is a rather redundant consideration; it's common knowledge you'll have a position at your father's business, isn't it?_

_I'm sorry if I sound like I'm pressuring you. I don't meant to nag, but I'm only thinking of your welfare. If you have any worries, please talk to me. Or any of us; I may be nearing two years out of school, but I always found that talking to graduates was helpful to me. Or talk to Phillippe, or Hamish, seeing as they're both a little younger. Perhaps you just need some more opinions?_

_I'm sorry I have only been brief; the urge to profess my concerns simply had to be worded after I spoke to Phillippe. We worry about you, Scorpius._

_I hope to hear from you soon._

_Helen_

I slowly lowered the letter, folding it with unnecessary precision. Helen's soft voice, her kindly words, rang through my mind with the hidden undertone of chiding suggestion. I found myself quite suddenly annoyed by my friend.

What right did she have to suggest as much? What right did she have to express her opinions and suggest that she knew what was better for me than I did myself? And what right did Phillippe have to talk about me behind my back like that?

I knew, in the logical part of my mind, that they were only thinking of me. That they only considered my own welfare and future prospects. They were my _friends_ , and any suggestions would certainly be from a place of kindness, not tyranny or personal affront. Still, it vexed me that they would both of them suggest so similarly. And unless Phillippe had also been talking to Hamish, the consideration was largely pervasive through my friendship group. The letter my loud friend had sent the week before had been largely jovial, but even he had questioned my workload. What was infecting my friends?!

Abruptly, I stood from my seat. I felt a jittery annoyance rippling through my legs that forbade me from remaining still. The letter, piled atop of the wearying recitation of what was expected of me in the holidays from my fatehr, was just too much. Any good humour I'd felt that morning was rapidly shrunk into oblivion.

Stepping over the back of the bench, I strode down the length of the hall to loop around the end of my table, heading towards Slytherin's. It wasn't an action I'd usually take, but for some reason I felt the desire to talk to one of my friends, one of my _other_ friends, those who didn't adamantly enforce the unshakeable need to bereft me of my Potions passion. Even if that person was Rhali, who was just as likely to stab me with her fork as to offer a listening ear.

She was still stabbing peas with unnerving precision when I stepped up to her side, the prongs of the fork packed more tightly than the beads of an abacus. She flickered me a glance as I stopped at her side and gave a particularly sharp jab at another pea. It missed, spinning off the table towards the second year Ravenclaw who flinched and cowered slightly.

Perhaps it was because of that, but whatever words I was going to say abruptly vanished from my mind to be replaced with only one phrase. "Do you know where Al is?"

Rhali actually turned towards me at my question, slowly raising her stuffed fork to her mouth and raking the peas into her mouth with a scrape of teeth on metal that _snick_ ed like fingernails down a blackboard. She raised an eyebrow towards me questioningly. I knew her well enough to interpret that expression by now.

"I just need to talk to him about something." Potions. Or Herbology. Or how it was my decision what subjects I took, what I did with my life, at least until I finished school. Al was always pretty supportive of that. "Have you seen him?"

Surprisingly, Rhali actually spoke in reply. Surprising not only to me, apparently, for several heads turned to incredulously to the girl with the dreadlocks. "I haven't seen him since breakfast, but I think he was hanging out with Ozzy."

"Oh." I released a heavy breath. That told me absolutely nothing. "Do you know where?"

Rhali's face turned from her usual almost-frown of 'talk to me and you die' to an almost-frown of consideration. No, not quite consideration. It was… almost knowing, but guarded. "I'm… not sure. Why?"

I shook my head, folding my lips. "I just needed to talk to him about something. Nothing important." I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. A weight settled in my chest however, slightly annoyed and, dare I think, a little desperate. The more I considered it, the more I just wanted to talk to Al. He was good with listening to me when I needed him to, selfish as that may seem. He was good at _listening_. "No problem, though. I'll just…"

Turning from Rhali, I made my way from the Great Hall with deliberately casual steps. The roiling of emotion, the annoyance over what my friends had said and the intertwined guilt and ardour that surrounded the continuation of my beloved subjects, intensified with their words, still rumbled through me. I could have talked to Ozzy, I suppose, if not to Al, though it wouldn't have been quite the same. Even Ozzy would have been better to talk to than Rhali, though, and other than those three there was no one else I _wanted_ to speak with.

Stepping into the Entrance Hall, I paused. If Al and Ozzy were together, then it was likely that they were as such so they could talk, and when any of my friends talked it was never around anyone else. That left one of two locations, really, when considering that it was only Al and Ozzy, without Rhali: the very distant tree line of the Forbidden Forest that Ozzy had taken to running along, or the Niche.

Given that I was feeling almost pathetically desperate – and the tree line was ridiculously long to search for just too people when wading through even a thin blanket of winter snow – I turned towards the sixth floor instead.

Some of my tension eased as I walked, both from my father's words and those of Helen, from the memory of Phillippe and even the more distant ones of Hamish's words. I was almost mentally coaching myself into thrusting aside the disgruntled thoughts, totally caught up in my mind and barely paying attention to where my feet took me. So caught up in my mind that when I turned into the short passage towards the Niche, when I silently opened the door, and when I beheld what was before me, I didn't register exactly what it was that I saw.

Al and Ozzy were in the room, in their Niche, but they weren't talking. There was the sounds of their breaths, short and loud, but no words. They weren't smoking Harproot either, and didn't appear to have taken any drugs, but I couldn't be certain. I wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind to even consider it. My brain appeared to have shorted, and I froze as the scene before gradually sunk into my senses.

They were on the couch, as usual. Not side by side, though. Al was seated in Ozzy's lap, facing him, legs either side of Ozzy's thighs. They were pressed chest to chest, Ozzy's arms locked around Al's waist, one hand caught on his hip and the other his thigh and holding him tightly against him. Al's arms were similarly wrapped around Ozzy, around his neck and, bowing over him, drew them closer together. Their faces were close – _too_ close – and then they were closer, and as I watched Al pressed a brief peck upon Ozzy's cheek.

Which would have been surprising enough. Except that they were both naked. Both pressed skin to skin, holding one another tightly as though to eradicate any distance between them. Skin faintly glistening with sweat, chests rising. And more, not just close. Ozzy was bucking, his hips rising and falling beneath Al as Al rolled his own, undulating in opposition, and _more_ , not just close but _joined_ –

I stumbled backwards from the room, barely keeping my feet. I couldn't stop close the door. I could barely look away from Al, from Ozzy, from their bodies pressed so closely together. All thought of Potions, of letters and distant friends, had disappeared from my mind, had left only an impossibly loud thumping in my ears, of my heartbeat throbbing behind my eyes. Yet even that noise, so loud, couldn't drown out the heavy pants, the soft smack of lips in kisses, which filtered from the room.

I ran. I didn't even think about it. I just turned and ran from the sight that filled my head.

I couldn't see where I was going, except to make sure I didn't run into walls. A fog clouded my mind and I nearly took a tumble down the stairs at the end of sixth floor. Catching myself just in time, somehow forcing my fleeing legs to _step_ not _stumble_ , I steadied myself and launched into the nearest door I came upon.

It was a classroom, that much I could make out. And it was dark. That was it. Every other feature was too complex to fit into the whirring of my mind. My skin felt flushed, too hot and too tight at once, and there was a strange, other tightness in my gut that tightened further with every thump of my heartbeat.

What? What?!

 _What_ was _that?!_

Al and Ozzy. Al and Ozzy. _When had that happened?!_

I was not unfamiliar with the sexual experimentations that ran rampant through the school. We were at a boarding school, for god's sake, and the trips and privacy spells around the dorms don't take a genius to discern the meaning of, nor to accidently slip past. I'd walked in on several of those 'experiments' in my time before pausing, blinking nonchalantly and resolutely turning to leave once more.

So why did it bother me so much? It wasn't an unexpected pastime of seventeen year olds. It wasn't even that they were both boys; there was more than enough of that at the school. The notion seemed to have been embraced alongside Muggle culture, and the acceptance of it with it, and what little restrictions that were held on Muggle relations were all but absent in Wizarding society. We had bigger things to concern ourselves with than same-sex relationships. The war, even more than twenty years on, was still fresh enough in the minds of most people to urge them to shake free of prejudice.

No, it wasn't that I'd walked in on Al and Ozzy having… having _sex_. It wasn't that they were both boys, either. It was because it was _Al_ and _Ozzy_. My two friends, going at it in the not-so-private Niche. In _our_ Niche.

I closed my eyes and leant on the nearest desk, planting both palms flatly. I couldn't get the image, however briefly witnessed, from my mind. I couldn't shake the sounds, however faint, from my ears. The roll of hips, the clench of muscles in rippling thighs, in arms, across shoulders, always hidden by clothing yet for the first time revealed and startling to behold. Harsh pants, faint groans, the almost inaudible squeak of the couch. Fingers that grazed over skin –

I shook my head sharply. It didn't help. It didn't shake the image, I couldn't shake _that image_ , of the both of them, together. Of _those two_ , but mostly… mostly…

I couldn't rid my mind of the image of Al.

Long, slender limbs, skin smooth and taut, the colour of white-washed sepia and coated in a thin sheen of sweat to define the curve of muscles. The way his head tilted, neck curving as he leaned over Ozzy, hair fallen loose from its usual half up-do and cascading around his face. I'd never even thought about it before, never considered Al as being attractive, but in that moment… it could have been simply the passion of the scene, but then why him? The image of Ozzy barely even registered in my mind.

No, it wasn't Ozzy. It wasn't _him_ that I saw in my mind.

The tension in my gut squeezed almost painfully and I registered what it was that I was feeling. Not tension, exactly, but a flood of heat, a painful flushing of sensitised skin that rushed towards my groin at every slight flicker of the image in my head.

Not Ozzy that I saw. I very, very much saw _me_ and Al.

With a stifled groan, as much at how pathetic I was as at my arousal, I fumbled to palm at my hardness through my robes. The sensitive skin pulsed even through fabric and it took a physical effort not to moan even louder. Without thinking, without considering that I was literally on the verge of getting myself off in the middle of a deserted classroom _to the mental image of my friend_ , I tore at my robes, at my trousers, and slipped my hand down my pants to clutch at myself. The breath that escaped my mouth was almost a whimper. Pathetic.

But I barely considered it. For the picture of Al in my mind, of what I'd just seen and the image my brain morphed it into, was too intoxicating to overlook. Not Ozzy beneath Al, but myself. Not Ozzy's hands wrapping around Al's waist, caressing his thigh and stroking the vertebrae of his spine, but mine. My cheeks that he kissed, and my lips that nuzzled at his jaw. _Me_ that writhed beneath him, that withdrew into the couch only to thrust –

I groaned, my hand tightening around my shaft as another heady pulse rushed to my groin. I leant over the desk once more, my free hand propping me up and panting frantically. The image in my head, of the boy above me riding me in haphazard motions, of my hardness thrusting into him in short, sharp jerks… My hand worked in a mirror of the reel playing through my mind. Thrust and pull, thrust and pull. There was no finesse to my motions, no teasing of gentle strokes, no attempts to draw out my rising climax. Every squeeze of my hand, every jerk of my wrist, was a haphazard motion that nearly spilled me over the edge. The heat built intensely, the sensitivity of my skin almost painful, the hardness under my fingers solid and throbbing, and the Al in my head moaning and clutching my neck as –

I came in a mind-numbing rush, an explosion of pleasure that blinded my eyes piercing whiteness and drew a muffled cry from my lips. My legs nearly folded, turned to jelly, as my hand pulled and drew out the climax in rising and falling waves.

I slumped over the desk, panting heavily. Blinking returned my sight to me only slowly to reveal the darkness of the room once more, my audience of empty chairs and stoic desks. The sound of my gasps, eerily loud in the high-ceilinged room, was the only noise breaking the silence.

Slowly, uneasily, I withdrew my hand from my pants, cringing at the stickiness moistness that coated my fingers. Cringing even more when the reality of what I'd just done, of what I'd just envisaged, registered in my mind.

 _"Fuck!_ "

The word just sort of slipped out. I'm not one to curse. Ever. Not like Al did, or Rhali or Ozzy. But in that instant, it seemed entirely appropriate.


	8. When I Mess Up, I Go Big

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of a sexual nature. Steer clear if this sort of thing bothers you.

_~Albus~_

Scor was avoiding me.

No, that wasn't right. He wasn't avoiding _me_ , exactly. He was avoiding us. All three of us.

No, that wasn't quite right either. I didn't _know_ that he was avoiding me – us – but it certainly seemed that way. He was probably just swamped under schoolwork. Scor had told me a couple of weeks ago that he was going to have to knuckle down because his father always set up a succession of meets and parties to attend over his holidays and he wouldn't get much time to study. But even accounting for that, I _swore_ he was avoiding me. He didn't approach me out of class and barely talked to me _in_ class either. Not even in Alchemy, which was usual his stage for spontaneous and opinionated discussion.

He even skipped our catch up on Sunday night. Our little group seemed unexpectedly small in the comfortable confines of the Niche. Even after such a short time with a fourth member, it felt odd returning to what was arguably more 'normal'.

I asked Rhali about it. She looked at me blankly for a moment, only a slight downturn to one side of her lips, quirking in a way that told me she suspected something in particular was going on but wasn't quite sure. Whatever suspicions she held, however, she kept to herself, only shrugging and claiming that she'd always seen it coming and that maybe he was just going back to his little Raven's nest.

I didn't like the thought of that.

Ozzy didn't have a clue. He was as oblivious as I was, I could tell, even if he is admittedly quite good at pulling the wool over my eyes for fun at times. It heartened me to know that he at least was even a little bit as upset as I was about the whole situation. We'd come to like Scor's company – and by we I meant Ozzy and I; I was still uncertain of Rhali's standing on the subject, but suspected she probably quite liked him too – and it hurt a little to have him up and leave the relative newness of our friendship without a word.

It _really_ hurt, actually. Rhali had half convinced me it was going to happen eventually, but I didn't realise quite how much it was going to until it actually happened. Because I really, _really_ liked Scor.

It was more than just as a friend, too. I wasn't not stupid; I could see my attraction for what it was. And it went further than Scor's resemblance to Mitch; the Muggle boy I'd dated in the summer before fifth year looked a little similar in terms of colouring, but their builds were different. Mitch had been tall and broad, the sort of heaviness that arose from the intense swim training he did. He was seventeen at the time, which yes, I know, slap on the wrist Al, but it's in the past.

Scor was nearly the same height as Mitch, but less bulky, leaner, with the typically lighter build of a quidditch player but with sufficient upper body strength to accommodate his Beater's position. Scor was paler, too, with lighter hair, almost white in the summer but darkening slightly as winter descended. And he had a straighter nose, because Mitch had broken his when he was thirteen. And his eyes were a lighter shade of blue. His fingers were longer, more slender, with perfectly manicured nails that could have been charmed. And…

And I spent far too much time staring at Scorpius Malfoy. I couldn't help shaking my head over it. It was just a shame he was straight; the world knew about how he'd dated Winona Winfrey.

I'd known I was gay since I was thirteen. Definitely, unshakeably and unequivocally gay. I'm not saying that I just woke up one day and realised. No, it took Lily dragging me along to one of her friendship 'gatherings' and setting me up with one of her summer friends, Katie – a quiet, round-faced brunette who wore an almost constant blush – for me to reach that conclusion. Lily had been mad at me when I'd 'broken up' with her, almost as mad as when she'd found out I was a junkie. Until I'd told her I was gay, and she'd deflated just as quickly as in the previous instance. Lily was like that, quick to spark her anger and quick for it to diffuse. Exactly like James, except James usually got in a clobber around the head or two before calming.

So yeah, I knew I was gay, and I knew I was at least a little attracted to Scor, And the more I thought about it, the more I realised that my attraction ran deeper that just the physical. Because I liked being with him, I liked working alongside him in class and, surprisingly, I liked actually talking to him. He was one of the few people that didn't make me want to zip my lips shut, lock them and throw away the key if not to abruptly start to my feet and hasten from the room.

It hurt that Scor had closed that door on me, on our friendship. And it bewildered me that I didn't know why.

I didn't deal well with change. I dealt even worse with stress. It was what got me onto taking Harproot, for starters, and it was what kept me going. And though I had my freaking out under such circumstances largely under control – and I did, really – little things could set me off. The boy I fancied suddenly giving me the cold shoulder when I'd thought we'd been getting along swimmingly was one of them. That, on top of the absolutely incredible amount of classwork we were receiving at the moment, and it was a struggle to keep myself under wraps. I wasn't a big studier, but I didn't want my life to get flushed down the toilet because I don't put even the bare minimum effort into my work either. So I tried, I really did. And if I visited the Niche a little more often than just every Sunday with a folded leaf of Harproot, well… it's not like Scor was around to tell me off or anything.

Which was what found me, two days before the end of term, slipping out of the sixth floor corridor and heading down to the Great Hall for dinner with an induced relaxation and a sleepiness that had me yawning for bed before it was even seven o'clock. I wandered through the double doors, smothering another yawn behind my hand, and dropped myself down onto a bench at the Hufflepuff table, scanning the table with mild curiosity for anything on that vast buffet that appeared vaguely edible. Within moments, my plate was decorated in an eclectic assortment of falafel, roasted capsicum and spinach, boiled cauliflower and a trail mix with sultanas that I have no idea as to why it was even on the table. Still, it went oddly well with the spinach, so I couldn't complain.

The Hall was sparsely populated, most of the students having already eaten and drifted off to their dorms to pretend to study while actually gossiping with friends behind raised hands, as though they thought anyone would reprimand them for not finishing their essays with the promptness of, say, a certain Ravenclaw prefect. Rhali had already left, and Ozzy spared me a wave as he too departed the Hall, which I returned too delayed for him to notice. I stared blindly before me as I speared pumpkin seeds with my fork – quite a feat, actually; they're tough little buggers – and pulled pistachio nut shells from my teeth when I hadn't even realised I'd eaten them.

A tap on my shoulder drew my attention from the final crumbs of my falafel and I glanced hazily over my shoulder. The Harproot was a bit more of a blanket over my mind than usual, probably because I'd been using it more lately and wasn't yet adjusted to the additional consumption. I blinked with widening eyes as I raised my gaze to meet Scor's.

His face was blank. Rigid and angular, as though he was struggling to keep it that way. As I stared at him, I noticed a slight twitch quiver along his jaw.

Was he… angry with me for some reason?

Before I could further pursue the thought, Scor spoke. "Have you got a minute?"

"What?"

Scor glanced awkwardly to the side and shifted slightly on his feet. That was weird; Scor so rarely actually showed any signs of awkwardness. He appeared so confident all the time that in that moment he may as well have held aloft a sign depicting the words 'um… well… ah…' in capital letters. I knew Scor always liked to appear confident, even if he didn't actually feel it.

"I was just wondering…" Scor paused, clearing his throat. "Have you got a second? I'd appreciate taking a moment of your time to talk to you about something, if that's alright with you."

That sounded a bit more like him. Still that weird awkwardness, but he was being courteous, which was about as 'normal' as Scor got. Nodding, I abruptly stood and stepped over the back of the dining table bench.

"We don't have to go now if you wanted to finish dinner," Scor hastily took a step back, unnecessary concern on his face.

I shook my head. "No, it's okay. I'm all done. Except…" I took half a dozen steps down the table and reached over a fifth year's head into the fruit bowl, plucking an apple from its fellows. "Yeah, I'm all done." And taking a bite out of the apple I followed Scor out of the Hall.

That brief walk was a little uncomfortable, and it was a feat in itself to appear nonchalant to Scor's request, as though we'd hadn't barely spoken a word to one another in over a week. I didn't know where we were going, so just followed Scor's lead, nibbling my way through my apple. Not that I think Scor had much of an idea either, from the pause he made just outside the Great Hall. He glanced both ways briefly before starting off to the left. I followed right behind him.

Neither of us spoke as we ascended stairs, turned corners and walked down corridors until Scor apparently decided that three turns and four floors was enough walking for one night. He stepped through the first door available. I'd never seen it before and, unsurprisingly, it was an empty classroom. There were so many classrooms in Hogwarts; it was actually a little excessive. This one looked unused, and probably had been for several hundred years or so given the archaic desks and stagnation of the air. There looked to be too few seats to host a class of any exceptional size within, too, unless regarding sixth and seventh year subjects exclusively. An unused, useless classroom.

It was dim within, with curtains across the windows and only one slightly opened to reveal the last sliver of evening light before the sun fell below the horizon. Too dim even to illuminate the dust motes I could smell in the air. I idly walked the length of the room, tossing my apple core into what I assumed was a bin beside the teacher's desk, and turned back towards Scor.

He looked very serious, propped as he was against one of the desks with his arms folded. Ominously so. For a moment I wondered if someone had died. Or maybe his chattering water lily was wilting; he'd seemed a little concerned for its welfare not two weeks ago, but I'd had a look at it and gave it a bit of a nudge in the right direction. I decided to wait for him to speak first, as was usual of our conversations. It's not like I felt comfortable enough to voice any thoughts anyway; my heart had picked up pace in my chest as it often did when I was confronted by an unforeseen situation and I was surprised Scor couldn't hear it.

Finally he spoke.

"Are you… seeing Oscar?"

"Ozzy," I corrected as usual. Then the rest of his words registered. "Wait, what?"

Scor wasn't looking at me, his face fixed in that deliberate blankness again and eyes trained on the floor at my feet. "You and Oscar. Ozzy, whatever. Are you two seeing each other?"

Maybe it was the effects of the Harproot, but I was having trouble understanding what Scor was saying. "What, like, dating? Are you asking if I fancy him?"

Still avoiding my gaze, Scor nodded slowly. His jaw twitched again.

I couldn't help myself. It was just so incredibly unexpected and so far removed from reality that I felt mirth bubble in my chest to replace the tight nervousness. Before I could stop myself, I was shaking in a fit of giggles. It was a good thing I was leaning against a desk myself, because I doubt I would have been able to retain my footing otherwise.

At least it served to raise Scor's gaze from the floor. His eyebrows crept upwards, surprised, before dropping again in a frown of annoyance. "What's so funny?"

I struggled to get a handle on my amusement, arms wrapped around my belly to crush a stop to the beginning of aching muscles. I gasped, breathing heavily in between hiccups of laughter, and fought to calm myself. "No, no I don't fancy Ozzy. Never have and I sincerely doubt I ever will. And I also doubt very much that Ozzy fancies me either, except maybe for the fact that I look a little like Lily."

Scor's annoyed frown became bewildered. "What, you're _not_ dating him?"

I shook my head, trying and failing to smother another snort of laughter. The thought was _hilarious_. "No, I'm definitely not dating him."

"But then…" Scor only seemed to become more confused with my explanation, his mouth sitting open slightly as though about to speak but words failing him. It took me a moment, but slowly I realised there was something very big that I was missing.

"Why do you ask, Scor? It's kind of out of the blue. Why you would think that?"

Scor fidgeted. Again, for the second time that night. Yes, he was _definitely_ uncomfortable. "I was just wondering."

"Yeah, I got that. Why would you possibly think that, though?"

Astoundingly, what looked like a flush crept up Scor's cheeks. He was embarrassed? "I just assumed… seeing as you…"

"Seeing as I what?" His tone was weirding me out a little.

"Seeing as you were sleeping with each other."

Silence hung between us, suspended like a glass Christmas bauble awaiting the faintest wind to knock it from its perch and shatter it across the ground. I was stunned. Not because of any fallacy of Scor's words, but… "Y-you… wait, did you… what? When did you –?"

The flush had suffused Scor's face, spreading from the light brushing of his high cheekbones across his nose and darkening his ears. I would definitely found it utterly adorable if I wasn't quite so unhinged. "Um… Last Saturday. I was looking for you to ask you something and… in the Niche…"

Any amusement I felt was abruptly washed aside in mortification. Someone had seen us? No, not just someone but Scor? _Scor_ had seen Ozzy and I, walked in on us fucking each other last week? _Scor_ , the boy I was slowly realising I had a whopping big crush on, had – "You _saw_ us?!"

I wasn't sure whose flush was brighter, mine or Scor's. It felt like mine, but there was barely a hint of whiteness left on Scor's face either. He pushed himself up from the desk, holding his hands out in a cautionary gesture. Or perhaps it was placating. Pleading? I wasn't not sure which. "It was an accident, I swear. Entirely accidental. I didn't mean to…"

His words trailed off as I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands. I _always_ told Ozzy we should charmed the door locked but _no_ , he'd always replied that it was hardly necessary because no one came up to the Niche during the day and no one came up at all except our little friendship group. Why was it so hard to put a bloody Locking Charm on the door? It took two seconds!

I moaned, hunching my shoulders and fighting the urge to sink to the floor in a puddle of embarrassment. Scor's words – for he'd started speaking again – slowly trickled back through my shell of humiliation like a distant call. "… honestly didn't mean to intrude, but I figured that would be one of the two places you'd be, and we've never really needed privacy there before, even when you brought the Happy Gum or Harproot and I know I should have knocked and I'm really sorry about that –"

Scor was rambling. He was rambling in stutters and stumbles, and it was so far removed from his usual flowing speech that it actually helped me to get a feeble grasp upon my own composure. Sliding my hands slowly down my face, I peered through my fingers. "I am so, _so_ sorry about that."

Stumbling to a halt at my words, Scor took a step back. It was only then that I realised he'd crossed the distance between us, nearly halved it so that barely two feet remained. He shifted – uncomfortably again – and fought for casualness in propping himself on the edge of the nearest desk once more. "It's… it's alright. I should be the one apologising."

"No, you really shouldn't," I said, shaking my head. A difficult feat when my shoulders still threatened to crush my ears. " _I'm_ the one who should be apologising. And not just because you, um… walked in on us. I mean, I'm pretty sure Rhali knew why we were going to the Niche so she wouldn't have come up, but we should have told you –"

"Wait, Rhali knew?" Scor had stilled. The flush still stained his cheeks, but he appeared to be recovering slightly from his bout of embarrassment. Lucky him.

I shrugged tightly. "I don't know. Maybe. She sort of just… knows things like that."

"So she knows you fancy one another?"

Slowly, I dropped my hands from my face, my shoulders dropping just slightly. My cheeks still felt blisteringly hot, but I struggled to ignore the heat. A difficult thing to do, and I'm pretty sure only the Harproot still lingering in my system steadied my gut enough to prevent a reflexive purge of anxious embarrassment. It was working wonders in calming me down. Or maybe that was just Scor's continued gentle wariness. "We don't fancy each other. Seriously."

"But then…?"

"Look," I sighed closing my eyes briefly as much to steady myself as to avoid Scor's baffled expression. "It's kind of weird, so please don't judge me too harshly for it, okay?"

"Judge you? Why would I judge you?" The confusion was clear in Scor's voice.

I opened my eyes once more, took a deep breath and released it in a huff. "Okay, so, I'm gay. About as bent as a right angle, Lily always says. Ozzy's bi; swings either way. He's got a thing for Lily, but he's never going to make a move. I mean, _never_. Says he never will, and that he doesn't want to either – which is bollocks, but whatever. He says I sort of look enough like her that, well… I mean, I haven't got a boyfriend at the moment, so as a sort of compromise, when we sometimes use Sparkies…" I held up a hand in a " _well, you get the gist_ " motion.

Scor frowned. "Sparkies?"

I rolled my eyes, the familiarity of Scor's blissfully ignorant words slowing my racing heartbeat just a little further. I flapped my hand at him. Of all the parts to focus upon, Scor picked the briefly mentioned drug. He really was a prefect, through and through. "Yeah, it's… it's a home-grown."

"Unsurprising."

"Well, you know me. Always try to play it safe." I attempted light-heartedness but I don't think I managed so well. "You grind it to a powered and mix it in a solvent. Just water will do, but a lot of people put it in alcohol or energy drinks."

"What does it do?"

I licked my lips, fighting back a returning wave of embarrassment. "It… sort of lowers your inhibitions."

"Sort of like Happy Gum?"

"No."

"Harproot?"

"No, not like that either."

"Jojo Beans?"

"What is it with you and your fixation with bloody Jojo Beans?" I sighed, exasperated, but nodded my head regardless. "But yeah, a little bit more like that. But not those kinds of inhibitions. More like, um… sexual ones."

Scor stared at me blankly again, but not the hard blankness of before. This time I was more strongly left with the impression of his brain short-circuiting. "Why would you take that?"

I shrugged sheepishly. "Other than the incredible orgasms? It does feels kind of awesome." I was gratified by the flush that returned to Scor's cheeks. It felt almost like a triumph and dampened the desire of my own cheeks to burst into flame. He should be at least as embarrassed as me by this conversation.

"So you're, what, relieving your… sexual frustration?"

I cringed at the almost clinical terminology. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"And you don't actually fancy Ozzy?"

I pursed my lips, shaking my head. "You make me feel bad saying it like that, but no, I don't. He's my friend; and though we fuck each other," I cringed again, even though they were my own words, "I don't think I'd ever see him like that."

"And he doesn't fancy you? At all?"

I shook my head again, frowning slightly. I wasn't sure what to make of the slight rise in his tone. He sounded really confused; maybe a little angry but mostly just very, very bewildered. "No, he told me nearly two years ago that he fancied Lily. He says I look enough like her for us to manage a physical relationship."

Scor suddenly frowned, his eyes flashing and something like a growl escaping his lips. "What the hell? That bastard!"

I blinked, drawing away from Scor slightly as his lip curled and he leant forwards. "What the hell was that? Since when do you swear?"

"What, so you're just letting him use you like that?"

"Hey, Scor, calm down. Seriously," I flapped a placating hand once more. Weirdly, Scor sounded _really_ angry in that moment. "You are reading way too deeply into this. It's not like that. I mean, I'm using him as much as he is me." Which sounded really bad, but hey, the truth can be harsh.

"But you just said he's fucking you because you look like your sister!"

"Oi, language!" I couldn't help myself; I felt like a scolding older brother. Scor didn't swear – _ever_ – and he'd just done so twice in three sentences. I could run rings around him with my own cussing, but for some reason it didn't sound right coming from him. "And no, that's not entirely correct. For your information, he did fancy me when we were twelve."

Scor froze and narrowed his eyes. He glared at me but I got the distinct impression he wasn't actually glaring at _me_. "I thought you just said he didn't fancy you."

I threw both arms into the air. "Bloody hell, there's no winning with you, is there?" As Scor only continued to glare, I shook my head. "No, he doesn't. That was nearly four and a half years ago, Scor. Ancient history." Scor still didn't say anything and in the awkward silence that ensued a thought occurred to me. "Does it actually bother you?"

"What?"

"Me and him. That we're sort of together. I mean," I paused, struggling for words. "I know your family's a bit traditionalist and might be a little uncomfortable about homosexual relationships or something, or… or casual relationships, but it's really not that uncommon nowadays –"

"Wait, you think I have a problem with two bloke's sleeping with each other?" Scor raised a stalling hand, his brow furrowing fiercely. I shrugged, raising an eyebrow. He'd sounded angry and almost personally affronted. How was I to think anything other than that he didn't take same-sex relationships as an insult to his perfectly straight little world?

Scor reassured me a moment later. "No. No, I do not have a problem with homosexual relationships. Not at all." He paused, and continued nearly under his breath, "really, really don't." It sounded like he was talking more to himself than to me, though whether to coach himself into believing it or for other reasons I wasn't sure."

"Well then, what's your problem?" I tried to keep the slight annoyance from my voice. I wasn't entirely certain that Scor _didn't_ have a problem with it, despite his words, and that irked me. Mostly because of my own little – big – crush, true, but for moralistic reasons too. Of course, it was for other reasons. It _was_.

Like a flicked switch, Scor flipped from affronted, apparently on my behalf, to wincing in embarrassment once more. "Nothing, I… nothing."

But that got me curious. "What? What is it?"

"It's nothing."

"Scor, you're killing me. You can't leave me hanging like this." A thought occurred to me. "Is this why you've been avoiding me for the past week and a half?"

The guilty flicker across Scor's face, too pronounced for him to smother before I saw it, was telling enough. "It is, isn't it?" Understanding dawning, I half turned from him thoughtfully, pulling myself up onto the desk and propping my hands behind me. I swung my legs idly in an attempt to give an impression of casualness. It was all a farce, of course. The gut clenching of mutant butterflies, the telling beginnings of nauseating nervousness, had begun once more, impossible to ignore and almost as hard to pretend I barely noticed them. "Well, come on. Out with it."

Scor stared at me guardedly, wary in a different way than he had been before. His eyes flickered down to my swinging legs for a moment before meeting my gaze once more. He looked like he was nearly writhing in his own skin, a novel expression for him and one I found entirely adorable. "It's nothing."

"Uh-uh, you're not getting off that easily. Tell me. I know there's something."

"No way. No, no way." Scor took a step backwards, half turning to hide his face. I could see his ears darken redly again, and it made me smile. "It would be far too embarrassing to tell you."

"What, more embarrassing then it is already? Think about the conversation we just had." Another quiver of discomfort – more like a spasm – rippled through my stomach.

"Definitely more," Scor replied. Which, of course, just made me even more curious. I couldn't help the slow smile spreading across my face as Scor's gradually acquired its flush again. My own embarrassment, and the anxiety that accompanied it, was slightly soothed at the sight. I suspected the Harproot had something to do with that. Probably. Or maybe teasing Scor was just too distracting.

"Hey, I told you one of my secrets, now you have to tell me yours."

"You _told_ me?" Scor scoffed, shooting me a scathing glance. The effect was quite lost in the redness of his cheeks. "I _found out_."

I shrugged. "Yeah, but I explained it. And now I've found out one of your secrets so you have to explain too."

"You haven't 'found out' anything," Scor grumbled.

I tilted my head, considering the boy before me. "Look, it can't be that bad, yeah? You say you're not against gay couples, so what is it? Not comfortable with exhibitionism, however unintended? Or was it the voyeurism, 'cause honestly that's probably closer to what it actually was considering the situation." I startled, felt my grin widen as Scor flushed an incredible colour of red. Bingo. Who knew?

My inner cheek surfaced tauntingly. I couldn't help myself, despite the urge to remain mute that the slight tightness in my chest was _very much_ demanding. "What, too hot for you? Want to join in next time?"

Something about Scor's expression was just far too telling and, even surprised as I was, I realised I'd hit the nail on the head. "What, you… you wanted to have a go?"

"Oh Merlin, _please_ never say something like that every again," Scor groaned.

I was still reeling in surprise so I wasn't even that offended. A surprise that gradually faded to something like delight. A strange, kind of twisted delight, but delight nonetheless. The butterflies metamorphosed into a different kind entirely, because if Scor actually found it arousing, if he could watch and actually got turned on… then maybe he wasn't as straight as I'd assumed after all. The thought was incredibly tantalising. I couldn't help myself; maybe it was the Harproot again – let's blame the Harproot – but my tongue took control of the situation. "Do you want to?"

Scor's wide-eyed mortification became a picture of floored stupefaction. "What?"

I shrugged, striving for casualness and probably failing. The flutter of butterflies in my belly seemed to be growing more frantic rather than dying with my attempts to quell their flight. "I don't have a problem with it, if you're, you know… looking to relieve some 'frustrations' or something." I jokingly used Scor's words, but because it still sounded far to stilted, I added, "We're friends. It's the least I could do." Which probably actually just made the situation worse.

Scor was still staring at me wide-eyed, his jaw hanging open slightly again. "Wha- wait. No, I –" He paused, turned away from me and took a series of steps before turning once more and wandering slowly towards me. He ran a hand across head, not raking his hair but more of a pat as though making sure it was all still there. "No, that's okay, seriously. I mean, casual sex is great and everythin, if it suits you but I'd probably want a bit more of a –" He cut himself off and cringed. "No, that came out wrong. I'd never ask you to be my boyfriend or anything…"

Scor trailed off into awkward silence that left the statement hanging in the air. Or maybe it was just sitting stagnant in my ears. They certainly and force rang hollow enough, resounding with his words. _I'd never ask you to be my boyfriend…_

Well. That was a bitch. My hopes were shattered almost before they'd blossomed.

Abruptly, I felt an overwhelming misery settle upon me. It hurt, being turned down, and in such an offhand manner that Scor probably didn't even realise how hard his blow had fallen. But hard it was, and I could already feel the bruise forming. Hell, he might have even squashed an organ or two. It took an enormous degree of willpower to keep from hunching my shoulders again, to keep my lip from trembling like a four-year-old girl who'd just been told that she couldn't ride the unicorn at the circus.

And maybe I went a little overboard. Maybe I overcompensated with my blasé attitude, but it was the only thing that stopped me from dissolving into pathetic tears. Because it _hurt_. I didn't realise I actually liked Scor enough for it to hurt that badly. I abruptly wanted him to want me, _so badly_ , to even have a passing regret at what he'd be missing.

Slipping off the table, I grasped at what I could remember of acting casual. It was a very thin something, but I held it firmly nonetheless. I shrugged, raking a hand through my own hair and taking a step towards Scor. I couldn't look him in the eyes, though. "That's okay, I wasn't asking for that either. Just 'relieving some frustrations', that's all." And I stepped up until I was nearly face to face with Scor. He was about half a head taller than me, so I had to look up to give even the impression of meeting his eyes. "Casual sex is good enough for you?"

"W-what?"

I shrugged again. "No harm in that, is there?" And before I could stop myself, before sanity could reinstate itself, I slipped onto my knees and took a grasp of his belt.

Scor might have protested, if he could have gotten the words out. He might have said something, maybe asked me to stop, if he was capable of uttering anything other than a startled, choked whimper. And I would have stopped. I wasn't going to force myself on someone who told me they don't want it, not even my crush who'd been a total _arse_ and deserved the kind of twisted revenge that I felt so intent to perform.

But Scor didn't say anything. And more than that, he didn't push me away either. Not when I pushed his robes aside, unbuckled his belt and tugged down trousers and pants. He was pressed up against the desk behind him, half slumped on the edge; I was thankful for that. It was one of the most awkward situations when giving head and the bloke's you're going down on has their legs fold under him. Very awkward.

It was gratifying to notice that, even just with my suggestion, with the brief fumbling of trousers, Scor was actually slightly aroused. Half hard, his length was flushed a dark red, contrasting to the pale hair around his groin. There wasn't much in it when I unconsciously compared him to Ozzy, and maybe it was that which leant me confidence, a confidence I so rarely felt. Sliding my hands up Scor's thighs, I slipped fingers around his shaft, lowered my head. In slow, motions I ran my tongue across the head.

Another choked sound, another whimper, sounded from above me. I think Scor said something, some words, but I'm not sure. They were unintelligible anyway and I was focusing on my mouth, my fingers, as I teased him, stroked him, ran my tongue down his length and felt it harden further. Because there wasn't enough room in my head for anything else; despite my forwardness, I felt the horrible urge to cry, to sob, to demand why I wasn't good enough for him. Why wouldn't Scor ever ask me to be his boyfriend? Am I really that unattractive or something?

The thought hurt, hit me like another blow; I don't have a huge amount of self-confidence, nor self-esteem. What little I have probably had a fair amount to do with my brief relationships in the past, and Ozzy's kindness and readiness for a physical relationship, even when I knew it wasn't me that he fancied. My forwardness in that moment surprised me probably as much as it did Scor. That knowledge, that understanding of myself, didn't stop me from gently caressing Scor's thighs, from curling my fingers around his balls and stroking them just tantalisingly enough to elicit a muffled groan, and to wrap my lips around the head of his throbbing arousal to take him fully into my mouth.

Scor groaned even louder above me, and I felt the faintest spark of satisfaction at the sound. He wasn't pulling away in embarrassment, if he ever had been to start off with. Quite the opposite, actually. His hands, his long, slender fingers, had dropped to my hair and curled tightly, almost painfully, tightening further each time I drew him down my throat. His hips trembled slightly, fighting the urge to buck, to thrust, and were probably stopped more by the insistent restraint of my hands than his own willpower.

Hollowing my cheeks and sucking, I glanced up through my eyelashes at his face. Scor was a mess, cheeks flushed, immaculate hair falling from its neatly combed styling, his eyes closed and lips parted to release faint gasps. It was incredibly erotic, and even with the painful ache in my chest I couldn't deny it was kind of arousing. _Really_ arousing. Strange, that he'd turn so completely to jelly with a casual blowjob. I'd have thought he'd have girls throwing themselves into his lap – probably boys, too – and he could take his pick.

The thought cut painfully again, because _obviously_ he didn't want to pick me. I felt my eyes prickle frustratingly, and paused for a moment in my ministrations. It was just so unfair.

It was probably a good thing that Scor didn't last long, because after that I really didn't want to be in the same room with him anymore, much less with his hardness in my mouth, his bitter, salty taste upon my tongue and mixing with the lingering sweetness of apple. I'm not saying my technique is spectacular or anything, but apparently it was good enough, for when I sucked once more, almost desperate for it just to be over – at what point exactly did I think this was a good idea? – there was a warm throb along my tongue, a groan from Scor and a jerk of his hips and suddenly my mouth was filled with thick, sharp fluid.

I pulled my head from his wilting length, so quickly I almost fell back on my heels. The taste felt wrong on my mouth, flavoured with my own melancholy, and I doubt I could have swallowed it even if my throat wasn't choked with tears. I hastily spit onto the floor, rubbing my hand across my chin. Tears of pathetic sadness, of shame and embarrassment, clouded my eyes as I felt something akin to panic rising within me. Familiar, horrifying, mind-numbing panic. I quickly pulled out my wand and cleaned up the mess of spit and cum on the floor.

When I glanced up at Scor, it was with a faint hint of relief, barely discernible through the rising panic, that I noticed he hadn't seen my heave. His eyes where still closed, a hand pressed to the side of his face. His trousers still lay open and he didn't look in a particular hurry to fix himself up.

In short, he looked entirely too ravished, too delectable, and I immediately wanted to be out of the room. Now. Like, right now.

Struggling to my feet – stone floors are killers on the knees – I took a step back, two. "Well, that was, um…" I cleared my throat, struggling to keep even the faintest glimmer of my feelings from showing. I doubt I managed; my voice was hoarse and unnaturally high. "Good enough?"

Scor fluttered his eyelids open, turning hazily towards me. A flush still suffused his cheeks, but it didn't look to be from embarrassment this time. At least not yet. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Al –"

"Good. Well, I mean, that's good. But I've got to, um…" I didn't know what I was saying, and I didn't really care. I didn't care that Scor would think I was weird, that I was a horrible excuse for a human being and might be insulted if I left abruptly. I had to get out of the unknown classroom before I started crying. Or screaming in a bout of anxiety. "I'll see you a bit later, maybe." And without waiting for a reply I nearly ran from the room.

I think Scor might have called after me, I'm not sure. I couldn't hear properly. I couldn't really see properly either, because the clouding of my eyes had thickened to a blur of tears. It was only years of familiarity that led me back to the Hufflepuff Basement, and only the typical nonchalance of my housemates that allowed me to slip through their midst without notice.

I fell into bed without a word to anyone for the rest of the night and curled up into a little ball of humiliation, misery and barely suppressed mortified panic. I didn't sleep a wink.

* * *

 

I didn't speak to Scor for the rest of term, though that wasn't really saying much of my avoidance skills. We only shared a few class on Thursdays and Fridays; Weatherwell didn't like people talking while they're transfiguring, and we focused on finishing up a fairly complex fertility brew in Potions so the classroom was a minefield of students jumping in fits of concentration. I skipped History; Binns wouldn't notice anyway, and I'd rather avoid the opportunity for Scor to talk to me. I didn't really see him much either outside of class, but that wasn't so much because he was avoiding me this time. Or maybe he was, I'm not sure. I just knew that I was sure as hell doing my utmost to avoid him.

I was in a bit of a daze of self-pity and self-disgust. It wasn't a good place to be, and nearly as bad as when I was verging on a panic attack. I'm not so much one to get depressed – I'm more the other end of the spectrum; the _extreme_ other end – but I know I tend to overthink things. And when I overthink things, melancholia shifts into a panicky state of self-loathing and reprimand that's nearly debilitating.

I thank my Happy Gum for getting through the last two days of term. That and my Harproot. The promise of a Happy high was about the only thing that drew me from my ball of shame and tricked me into class and Harproot was what got me to sleep on the other end of the day. It wasn't a healthy habit to get into, I knew. But I told myself it wouldn't last, that I was just using a bit of a crutch for the moment to recover from my little bout of heartbreak, and that I'd get over it soon. And I think I did a relatively good job of it in such a short time, too. When I climbed from bed on the first day of the holidays, ready to catch the Hogwarts Express back to London, I was still, admittedly, quite miserable, but was able to hold off on the Gum. And though I felt kind of down all morning, I was satisfied with my restraint; I didn't need another revisit of third year.

I was aware that Ozzy and Rhali knew something was wrong. Ozzy asked me, as Ozzy was want to do, but I just waved off his questions with the excuse that I was "just thinking about some stuff" and it was "probably just schoolwork weighing me down". God bless his gullible heart – or maybe his lenient heart – for Ozzy didn't pursue the subject. He still stuck to me like glue, though, which I guess I have to be thankful for. That the seat next to me was occupied in all of my classes was a bit of a deterrent had Scor actually felt the urge to fill it, as he had done over the past few months except for the last week and a half. I didn't know if he tried to; I didn't glance towards him to check.

Rhali didn't ask me anything. Not with words, anyway. After Potions on Thursday morning, however, she'd held me back in the classroom for a moment and simply stared at me. I didn't know exactly what she was asking but I got the general gist of it.

"What? I'm fine." I'd shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance. Rhali just stared a little more, then linked her arm through mine and tugged me off for a wander to bludge our free period away while Ozzy was in Muggle Studies. I was surprised at that and oddly touched; Rhali didn't like physical contact except when either giving someone a whack or prodding in idle jest, so the fact that she'd made the extra effort for me was heart-warming. My oversensitive tear ducts were pushed to the limits of their endurance.

On Saturday morning, I met my friends at the carriages, each of us with our trunks and me with Caesar's cage loaded on top, though the bloody bird stubbornly insisted he would not, in fact, be spending any leg of the trip off my shoulder. We clambered aboard a carriage – just the three of us, as always; people don't seem eager to share, which was fine by me – and were soon rattling down towards the platform. As Rhali and I were late risers – Ozzy had taken his exercise regime to heart and was actually getting a morning run in most days so got up earlier – we didn't have a whole lot of time to shift between carriage and train before it chugged into motion.

The compartment we found, the one least crowded, already had a pair of students in it. They were both pretty tiny, so I'm assuming they were Firsties. I'd reconciled myself to the fact that we'd be sharing with the two kids about five minutes into the journey before they mumbled something in synchrony, shuffled awkwardly to their feet and removed themselves from the compartment. I was fairly certain it was Rhali that drove them away, though I couldn't be certain. To me she looked to be having a good day, was hardly intimidating at all; only one of her eyes was glaring.

About halfway through the journey was when I saw Scor for the first time that day. Ozzy had left the compartment for a wander that he'd mumbled had something to do with seeking the toilet but I suspected more likely involved a search for Liquorice Wands, and had been gone for nearly ten minutes. Rhali and I chatted easily about her holiday arithmetic's course because yes, apparently Muggles are crazy enough to still want to actually do maths over the Christmas break.

"That's a little far to travel though. Croydon's something like two hours from your place, isn't it?"

Rhali gave me a scathing stare. "That, Ally, is why we have magic."

"Hey, don't look down your nose at me. You _said_ you were going to go all-Muggle on your mathematics experience, do it the traditional way. I assumed that meant travel as well."

"I'm going all-Muggle within the bounds of the reasonable. Travelling two hours by train when I could take two seconds to Apparate is not reasonable."

"Is there even an Apparation point anywhere the high school?"

"It's at the heart of Croydon, Ally. Of course there is."

I pulled a face. "Well, excuse me for assuming."

I didn't hear whatever it was that Rhali said in reply, if she actually said anything at all, because from the corner of my eye I caught movement. It could have been Ozzy coming back, but for some reason I knew it wasn't. A half turn determined it was Scor, paused mid-step as he passed our compartment with a confusing expression on his face, his perfect eyebrows frowning. He was probably doing his prefect duties; I was actually mildly surprised – and grateful – that I hadn't seen him earlier.

I couldn't meet his eyes, though, and immediately dropped my own to my hands. My nails were torn to shreds a bit of late as always happened when I got stressed, to the point that when I was younger, on really bad days, they used to bleed. I wasn't not sure how long I stared at my fingers, but when I eventually chanced a glance to the door once more Scor was gone.

"Are you going to tell me what that's all about?"

Rhali's voice drew my attention with the blunt demand of her usual approach. I fidgeted uncomfortably in my seat. "I…" Struggling for words, I only shook my head.

"It's gotten to be a problem, Ally," Rhali continued, but her voice had become soft; uncharacteristically so for her. I peered up, head still bowed. "And I'm not just saying for you. I mean, Scor looks kind of put out too. Not as bad as he was a few days ago, but I get the impression he's pretty confused about something."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything. Apparently Rhali realised I wasn't going to for she continued a moment later. "What happened between you two?"

There was no avoiding the question. If it had been Ozzy who'd asked it, I would have had a better chance of brushing the question aside. I would have desperately thrust it aside, actually; telling Ozzy would have been awkward on a whole new level. But there's something about Rhali when she's acting all intent and concerned, even if her way of expressing concern was a little unconventional, which always urged me to speak to her. She made me really think about my reply, made me almost want to tell her.

So I shrugged, biting back the upwelling tide of emotions that threatened to shower a wet spell through the train, through our compartment in particular. "It's nothing huge, really. I was just being stupid. I misunderstood something, I guess. Or maybe expected too much."

"Expected too much how?"

It would have been _so_ awkward telling Ozzy, given our relationship, but with Rhali… "I liked him in a different way than he liked me. So I botched things up and made an idiot of myself."

Rhali was quiet for so long that I actually looked up. There was no pity in her eyes, which I was heartily grateful for. Rhali only occasionally showed pity, and rarely if ever expressed sympathy. Which actually made confessing truths to her a hell of a lot easier. She only looked considering now. Thoughtful. "When you say 'different'…?"

"I mean, I liked him more than he liked me." It was blunt, to the point, and remarkably felt sort of liberating to voice the reality, even as it became more defined upon putting it into words.

Rhali frowned. "What makes you think that?"

I shrugged. "It's a little hard to think otherwise when he told me."

"Told you what?" Rhali's tone had deepened a little dangerously. She sounded angry, though I wasn't sure if it was for my dancing around the bush or the topic at hand. It drew my attention and I caught the beginnings of that anger tightening Rhali's face.

"Nothing, Rhali. Seriously, it's nothing –"

"Ally."

That word. That word and that tone. It intimidated me more than my mum's. I was blurting out the truth before I even realised it. "He just said that he'd… that he'd never ask me to be his boyfriend. I guess he just wouldn't ever see me that way. Which is okay, it's just…" I trailed off.

Rhali sizzled. I could see it, like bacon crisping and spitting on a hot pan. She opened her mouth to reply, but didn't get a chance as at that moment Ozzy finally returned, a Liquorice Wand sticking from his mouth. Rhali looked disgruntled by his appearance, but I was thoroughly relieved. Blunt and often tactless as Rhali can be, she had something resembling a descent filter when necessary. I knew she wouldn't continue our conversation in front of Ozzy; it was private, and even if we did share just about everything else with each other she obviously picked up on my desire not to inform Ozzy of my circumstances.

We moved on from the subject of Scor and my humiliating performance, and I eventually settled myself sprawled across the seat, propping my head on my hands and drifted off into a doze, because one can never have too much sleep. Ozzy offered me his lap, good friend that he was, but I declined. Rhali made up for it by kicking her shoed toes across his thighs instead, which resulted in a shoving match between them. I drifted in and out of wakefulness to the sounds of their muted grumbles and play-hisses, to the nearly inaudible mumbling of Caesar squatting on my chest.

A gentle shaking roused me from slumber and I sat up abruptly. Probably the fastest I've ever woken in my life, if one could really count me as awake. Ozzy grinned at me and patted my head in what I could only assume was fixing the birds nest my hair had become. Apparently it wasn't as bad by way of untame-ability as my dads was – his was something of a legend – but it tried its hardest.

I yawned, scooping Caesar from my chest and struggling to force him into his cage as I glanced blearily around me. Rhali had disappeared somewhere, and a glance out of the window confirmed we were almost at Kings Cross; I recognised some of the buildings flashing past the frosted window.

Ozzy confirmed it a moment later. "Sorry to wake you, Sleeping Beauty. Five minutes till we check in."

I rubbed the grogginess from my eyes. "Right, okay. Thanks for waking me up." It was a mumble, barely resembling words, but Ozzy apparently understood the sentiment anyway.

"No problem."

"Where's Rhali gone?"

Ozzy raised one shoulder. "Your guess is as good as mine. She said she was going to the loo but that was nearly fifteen minutes ago."

"She's probably gone to get some Liquorice Wands or something," I teased, blinking myself into almost full wakefulness. Ozzy only grinned wider.

Rhali returned just when the train was pulling into the platform, ignored my question as to where she'd been and kicked Ozzy's shins when he demanded a share of whatever candy she'd managed to pilfer from the wandering trolley. We gathered our luggage and waded through the blearing hoard of students to tumble from the train.

Mum and Dad are easy to find in the sea of waiting parents and younger siblings. They always waited with my cousins, with Auntie Hermione and Uncle Ron, so there was just enough Weasleys for their red-headedness to pervade through the crowd. I spotted them just as Rhali spotted her own parents and just a moment before Ozzy started and raised a hand to beckon to his mum.

We turned to each other in unison. None of us really hugged, at least not in public and Rhali very rarely even in private. We tended to keep the farewells and the 'Merry Christmas's to a minimum too, so there was only a muted exchange of words between the three of us before we dispersed. I thought Rhali might have looked at me a little longer than normal, and there was an added intensity to her murmured, "You better bloody write to me at least once before Christmas this year, Ally," which I chose to ignore.

"Al!"

My trunk and Caesar's cage were nearly knocked from my hand as Mum pushed through the crowd and wrapped me in a hug. I let her; I wasn't not too proud or too foolish to think that my mum's hugs weren't worth their weight in gold. Dad stepped up to her side and clamped a hand on my shoulder a moment later.

"Hey, Al, how was your trip?"

I offered Dad a smile, but speech was impossible through Mum's tight embrace. She'd been a bit of an empty nester since Lily went to school, and even though James was staying at home most of the time – at least when he's in England and not touring – I think she still missed having kids around the house. It was only reluctantly that she retracted her tentacle-like grasp.

"Hi Mum," I said, offering a smile. She grinned widely back and patted my cheek. We were about even in terms of height nowadays, or maybe I was a little taller, I wasn't not sure. Any height I had over my Mum, however, she eradicated by tugging me down to plant a kiss on my forehead.

"Come on, you two, save the happy family reunion for the privacy of the homestead," an amused voice said behind us. I turned towards my sister and only caught a glimpse of her before Mum had detached herself from me and engulfed her in a similar embrace. There was a squeak of indignation, but Lily allowed it. We weren't not too cool for giving Mum hugs; that right was reserved solely for James.

I turned to Dad instead. "Alright, Dad?"

He shifted his attention from smiling at Mum and Lily and nodded. "Yeah, alright."

"How's work?"

"Work is work. Busy," he replied, with his usual world-weariness. He didn't need to explain away the typical reply to the pleasantry. Head of the Auror Department was bound to be a busy job. "How about you? How's school been? You hanging in there for seventh year?" Dad peered at me with narrowed eyes, frowning slightly. "You're looking a bit peaky."

"I'm fine, Dad," I assured him, waving away his concern with a half-smile. "Just swamped under homework."

"I'll bet. I've got to admire you kids, doing your N.E. . Hanging in there strong." There was genuine admiration in Dad's tone and he didn't bother to try and hide it. Everyone knew Dad hadn't completed his years at Hogwarts but went straight onto Auror training. Of course he didn't need N.E. . Asking my dad for proof of his capacity as a Defence wizard was like asking a fish for proof it could swim. Entirely irrational and a bit of a waste of time.

Still, Dad always made it clear that he was proud and a little in awe of the fact that all of his kids were finishing school. Even if James had only just scraped the bare minimum in most of his subjects. I suppose Dad thought he probably would have been the same.

I shrugged away the compliment and allowed myself to be herded towards the rest of the family with Mum and Lily in tow. There were greetings, Auntie Hermione gave me a kiss on the cheek – though she refrained from trying to crush my ribs like Mum had – and we headed off from the platform. I walked beside Rose, the both of us the quietest in the family and largely revelling in our mutual muteness. We'd been close in our childhood, Rose and I; not so much nowadays, though I still enjoyed her company. We were just very different. Now we just generally congregated together at family gatherings.

Still, she gave me a one-armed hug and a "see you at Christmas if not before" when our families split. The Weasley red-headedness disappeared into the crowd as we sunk into the hastening stream of Muggles and made our own way to the car park. Efficient as ever, and without James to bemoan leaving his friends behind, this year it went a lot quicker than usual.

Not quickly enough, however.

"Albus!"

I nearly tripped over my feet as I heard my name called. Feeling my eyes widen, in something approaching horror, I dropped them down to my shoes and pretended I hadn't heard Scor call out to me. I let my feet pick up pace as I walked beside Dad. Couldn't he walk any faster?

A useless ruse, as it turned out, because an instant later Scor called out once more. "Albus, wait a moment, please!"

He was close enough now that Lily, that Mum and Dad, could hear. Much to my distress Dad paused and turned to glance over his shoulder. I kept my head bowed but followed suit, cringing at the sight of Scor striding through the crowd, tall and blonde and full of confidence in his cry for attention. I resolutely _did not_ look at Lily; I really didn't want to know what her take on the situation was.

A moment later Scor was upon us. He regarded me for a moment, and it was all I could do not to sink into the ground, before he shifted his attention to my dad. "Excuse me, Mr Potter. I'm Scorpius Malfoy, it's a pleasure to meet you." He nodded and offered a similar greeting to Mum but didn't pause to receive replies from either of them. Probably a good thing as Dad looked almost too surprised and bemused to speak. "I'm terribly sorry, but would you mind if I borrowed Albus for a moment. Only briefly, I assure you."

Dad stared at Scor for a moment longer, his lips twitching, before turning towards me. He wasn't the most perceptive person, my dad, but I held hope that he might insist upon our rapid departure.

Today was not one of his good days and when he turned to me and pushed his glasses up his nose in the way he does when he's a little confused, I already knew his answer. "Of course, Scorpius. No problem at all."

"Dad –" I began, but Scor cut me off.

"Thank you so much, Mr Potter, I really appreciate it. I'm sure you've got places to be but it _is_ important." Dad's face became even more bemused but Scor didn't seem to notice. He was staring straight at me expectantly, but with something else in his expression. It was sort of… pleading? "Albus?"

I chewed my lip in a fruitless search for an out, and nearly yelped when Lily stepped to my side and kicked my ankle. I shot her a glare, to which she smirked, but finally sighed in defeat. "Sure, whatever." Scor appeared almost embarrassingly grateful for my agreement, nodded, and beckoned me to a relatively out-of-the-way nook to the side of the flowing crowd.

His expression was a mixture of changing emotions that flickered too fast for me to discern when Scor turned to me once more. His face was composed, though, not a hint of the mortification or even embarrassment that had been painted across it the last time I'd actually looked directly at him. Not aroused either, thank God. I think I would have turned tail and fled if I'd seen that. The memory made me cringe in shame.

"I'm sorry," Scor began.

I shrugged. "It's okay. It's not like we needed to be anywhere today anyway." Damn, I shouldn't have said that. I should have left myself an out for escape.

Scor was shaking his head, however. "That's not what I meant. I mean I'm sorry, about what happened on Wednesday."

My chest tightened in a mixture of rising anxiety and nauseating humiliation. I couldn't look at Scor and settled for watching the passers-by. "You've got nothing to apologise for. If anything, I should be the one apologising."

"No, you shouldn't –"

"Yeah, Scor, I really should," I overrode him, my voice rising in both pitch and volume. I felt a little panicked as the apology finally came forth. I felt really, _really_ bad about what I'd done, even if Scor had enjoyed himself. If he had. It was abrupt, and uncalled for, and my reasons for doing it were entirely immoral. Besides, Scor had just told me that he wasn't interested in me in any meaningful way. He'd probably just been turned on by seeing Ozzy and me because it was surprising, or –

"No, Al, _you really shouldn't_." Scor's voice sliced through my thoughts. "I talked to Rhali on the train and I'm pretty sure there's been some misunderstanding over what happened."

I whipped my head towards him. "Rhali? When did you talk to her?"

"Just before we pulled into the station. Well, when I say talked, I really mean I was talked at and forced to listen." Scor smiled crookedly, a little fondly even. "She explained something to me that I didn't realise at the time."

"You talked to Rhali about it?" I couldn't quite get past that fact. That _Rhali_ had approached Scor. To _talk_.

"Talked at, yes. Though I see she got to you first," Scor smiled again, and there was no reprimand in his tone. It was a bit of a relief, really amidst the rising chaos of my mind; I half expected him to be angry at me for sharing what happened – even only a little bit of it – with Rhali. "And I think I have some explaining to do."

"You have some explaining? I'm pretty sure I'm the one –"

"Al, can you just shut up for a minute?" Scor didn't speak harshly, but my jaw clamped shut nonetheless in surprise. Pausing a moment to make sure he definitely held the speaking stick, Scor released a breath. A steadying breath, as though he was working himself up to something. "Right. There's no other way to say it so I'm just going to get right to the heart of the matter. I like you, Al."

I stared at him blankly, my mind turning slowly. "Ri-ight. Thank you, I like you too. Most of the time."

Scor snorted, but shook his head with a small smirk. "I don't mean that sort of like, you idiot. I mean I fancy you, Al."

I blinked. Once. Twice. And again. "What?"

"Al, I fancy you."

"No… no, you don't."

"Actually, I do. And I'm pretty certain I'd know best."

I shook my head, raking a hand through my hair. My mind was whirring in confusion, in confounded panic. "No, Scor, you don't. You said –"

"I know what I said, and Rhali told me how you heard it. Let me assure you, when I said I would never ask you to be my boyfriend, it meant something very different to how you interpreted it."

A flare of confused anger burst through me. "How the hell else could someone interpret that? _Seriously_ , Scor!"

Scor held up his hands in a "don't shoot me" gesture and had the decency to look faintly guilty. "Well, _I_ did. What I meant was that I'd never force you to be my boyfriend just because I wanted a deeper relationship than casual sex. I mean, for my own gratification."

Those words, they effectively deflated my anger like a popped balloon. It left so quickly that I abruptly understood how Lily must feel with her near-bipolar mood swings. Surprise shrouded every thought and smothered every emotion that attempted to make itself known in my mind. "O-oh. So that's… no, I don't…"

"I mean," Scor took another deep breath, "that I fancy you, that I'm attracted to you, and that watching you with- with… in the Niche was very…" He flushed slightly, raising his eyebrows indicatively to enforce his meaning. I'd have to be an idiot not to understand what he was referring to. "And when you asked me if I wanted to, with you –"

"You told me you would never –"

"-what I meant was that I would really, _really_ like to, but I'd rather something deeper. But that I didn't want to force you into a relationship just because I didn't feel as comfortable with… with casual sex." The flush spread lightly across Scor's cheekbones, but to his credit that was the only indication of his embarrassment.

I stared at him with my surprise slowly dying and wonder gradually, slowly, filling its place. Wonder, a bit of disbelief – okay, a lot of disbelief – and the kindling of something that could have been joy. "You actually… really fancy me?"

Scor released a heavy breath of relief, as though gratified that I'd made the connection for myself. "Yes, that's what I'm saying. And I thought that maybe, after what happened on Wednesday, just maybe you felt the same, even if only a little bit. But then you avoided me on Thursday and Friday, and I didn't know what to think."

I felt a pang of guilt spear me, and rubbed a hand across my forehead. "I'm really sorry about doing that."

"You are?" Was it my imagination, or did Scor sound a little disappointed.

"Very, very sorry. I shouldn't have just jumped you like that. I don't… I mean, I don't usually…" I trailed off, biting my lip.

Snorting, Scor rolled his eyes. "It's not like I didn't enjoy –"

"Scor, stop. Hold on a second and let me explain." Because I had to, even if it was humiliating to reveal my childish reasoning. I would much rather keep the truth nestled firmly within the realms of the unseen. "I was kind of upset when it sounded like you turned me down, so I sort of… maybe a little… just wanted you to see what you'd be missing…"

There. It was out there. And I wanted to bury myself in a ditch and hide from the world forever.

Scor stared at me with the degree of surprise rivalling that I'd felt only minutes before. "You were upset?"

I frowned. That's what he took from that? "Yeah –"

"Because you fancy me too?"

I stared at him blankly for a moment before feeling my eyes widen. A jolt rippled over my nerves; I'd thought Scor _knew_ that I liked him, that I was attracted to him, and that was why he'd felt the need to come up and explain things. Obviously, such was not the case, and I was left treading water in an unexpectedly deep pool and floundering because _I was not prepared to experience a revelation right now!_ "I… I thought you knew. I thought Rhali told you –"

"Yeah, she did. But it's different actually hearing you say it aloud." Scor's smile had returned with his confidence. The only flush that touched his cheeks was that of growing delight. "Thank you for telling me. And just to be clear, _really_ clear, with no confusion: I fancy you too."

We stared at each other in silence. My nerves were dancing to an entirely different tune now, and for the first time in three days I felt the residue of self-pity and regret fizzle away. The incredulous smile that tugged at my lips was too demanding to hold back, so I just let it loose. It was less embarrassing when a mirroring grin plastered upon Scor's face.

We could have lost half of the afternoon staring at each other with silly school-kid awkwardness and I wouldn't have noticed, but somehow Scor managed to shake himself out of it. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder – towards his parents, I could see, who were standing nearby but not quite with my own; God, Scor looked so much like his dad! – before turning back towards me. He took a step closer. When he spoke, his voice was low and intense.

"Since we've got that out in the open, would you mind me asking?"

"Ask away," I replied, maybe a little breathlessly. There was no need to question _what_. I'm not that slow on the uptake.

Scor smirked, the self-confident prat. "Will you go out with me?"

I tilted my head, giving the pretence of pondering, though I think my smile probably gave me away a little bit. "Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, Scor?"

"I believe that is one of the terms that is used, yes."

I nearly giggled in pathetically euphoric delight. "Then most certainly. I would be honoured to be your boyfriend."

Scor sketched a mock half-bow. "Believe me, the honour is all mine." The posturing didn't last long before we dissolved into snickers.

There wasn't really all that much to say after that. We didn't profess our feelings in long-winded spiels, nor pause to discuss the embarrassing and unconventional events that led up to the present situation. We didn't kiss to seal the deal, both for my own sake – I'm really not comfortable with romantic displays in public – and Scor's, because he most likely had some sort of Malfoy reputation to uphold. By unanimous agreement, we exchanged bare words, a promise to write one another at the soonest possible moment, and drifted back towards our families. There was only a wave of farewell before the Malfoy trio departed. I felt a warmth settle in my chest each time Scor cast a smiling glance over his shoulder before they finally disappeared from view. He did so more than once. More than five times, actually.

"What's got you so happy?"

I glanced at Mum, starting guiltily. I shook my head in denial but couldn't smother my grin. "Nothing."

"Su-ure," Lily drawled, raising an eyebrow. I felt my cheeks heat and shot her a threatening, quelling glare.

"I didn't know you were friends with Scorpius Malfoy, Al." Dad rested an arm around my shoulders. He looked surprised but oddly impressed about something, as though such a friendship were a feat of courage itself. "What are the odds?"

"Who'd have thought?" Mum agreed.

I didn't want to delve into what they were talking about, even if I felt I could make a pretty accurate educated guess. Lily looked curious but didn't say anything more on the subject either, for which I was grateful. We finally turned towards the parking lot once more and, after a game of Tetris trying to fit both Lily's and my luggage into the boot of the car without magic, we were heading home.

I couldn't stop smiling the whole way.


	9. It Couldn't Be More Perfect

Frowning at myself in the mirror, I pressed at the wayward strand of hair that just wouldn't sit properly once more. I disliked using potions upon my hair; it acquired a smell strange after an hour or so for some reason. I think it was because of the reaction with the natural oils of the hair or something. But it was tempting when that single lock was the only thing keeping me from presenting a perfectly stately and immaculately groomed first impression.

Maybe I should just get my hair trimmed.

Christmas had passed with little excitement and much bemoaning of the hours spent sharing bored stares with the younger members in attendance at the Quillese House Party. Oh, we'd never admit it, of course, would remain silent under torture, but within the circles of the proper and upstanding there was a general agreement amongst my generation: yes, most gatherings were boring and a trial in and of themselves, so any displays of disgruntlement, boredom or drifting into sleep would be immediately covered up by one's fellows. It was an unspoken agreement, but I knew from experience that every single one of the witches and wizards of my age cohort took to it as though it were written lore.

So even though Christmas had been as dull and dreary as it always was, at least I had been spared the social blunder of falling to sleep amidst a gaggle of squawking geese that would have been horrified had they realised that my expression of neutral attentiveness was actually a the equivalent of closed eyes and barely conscious dozing. Thank Merlin for Gertrude McFergusson; if she hadn't nearly crushed my foot under the table to wake me up, I would have left a very disgruntled – a very loudly disgruntled – Lady Esterby to the delight of bemoaning the inattentiveness of youngsters these days for the rest of the afternoon. Bless Gertrude's kindly soul, and the strength of her downward step. I did think I'd developed a rather impressive bruise, though.

Unfortunately, today was the New Year's dinner with the Board of Directors. Other than perhaps one or two younger members of the family – and by younger I meant at least ten years my senior – it was unlikely that there would be anyone to rescue me from listlessness this time.

Except for Al.

I couldn't quite keep the smile from stretching across my face at the thought. It was only my reflection grinning stupidly back at me in the mirror that drove me to soften it into gentle good humour rather than foolish excitement.

I hadn't seen Al all holidays, and it was nearly killing me. That brief exchange on the station, my own confession that left me nearly quaking at the knees – a reaction I'd never experienced before – and his acceptance. His agreement, even. And that gorgeously infectious smile that lit up his face. The aftereffects had made the evening enduring bachelorette Mildred's simpering and clawing at my arm actually endurable. It was only regretful that I hadn't been able to see him since.

We'd exchanged letters at least three times a day in those first days. I told Al that, no matter how much I loathed not being able to see him, to catch up with him, to simply be together and explore the tenuous commitment we had so recently initiated, I had duties.

Al had been disappointed, which had actually filled me with a warmth that had me questioning whether I was actually a closet sadist. He'd accepted it, though, claiming he understood how important it was to attend the meetings, to sit down to dinner after dinner and converse with people four times my age in an attempt to impress my goodness of character upon them. He didn't, however, hold back on how much he regretted that we couldn't meet, which in itself was enough to hold me through many a dull conversation while simultaneously urging me to leap to my feat and flee to his house at once. I didn't, but only just, and only because I knew it would give Father a hard time if I'd disappeared so abruptly.

The separation was made slightly less painful when, on the third evening of the holidays, Al had sent me a silver-wrapped package very obviously tied for Christmas. The tag fastened to the top indicated that it was an "Early Christmas present, but I figured we could both benefit from it at the moment".

It was a phone. One of the newest models of those adapted to work in the midst of magical activity. Light and slim, basically a screen as its sole component, the incredibly narrow sides and shiny back were covered in a multitude of near-microscopic runes that protected the inner mechanics from being short-circuited by magic. It was well done, too; the industry had boomed in the last decade and Inscribed Devices hardly needed a touch up every three years now.

Father said I came from a technological generation. He said that, even having grown up with it sparingly and being instructed only rudimentarily in the basics of how Muggle devices worked, that there was something innately embedded in people my age that allowed us to just 'know' how to use them. I tended to agree with his suspicions, at least in part; maybe it was just my younger mind, but while I managed to work out the basics of the phone within hours – closer to minutes, actually – father only stared at the screen warily when I handed it to him for a look and tentatively pressed the buttons on the screen as though he feared it would blow up. Yes, part of me acknowledged that there was something to be said for Generation Z – as Rhali dubbed us; it was a Muggle term, apparently – and our ability to understand technology.

The other part of me admitted that it probably has something to do with my cousin Perpetua and her obsession with Muggle devices. I was fairly certain she'd completed an online course for IT that she still hadn't told my aunt and uncle about. We'd spent a good hour or so discussing it when I went to visit them before Christmas, phone in hand.

Al was right, though, disregarding all other interests in the present; the phone was a godsend. There was something entirely different about hearing his voice as opposed to simply reading his written words, to say nothing of the speed of our correspondence. Within a day we were messaging each other multiple times an hour. I brought my phone to the dinners and parties I was forced to attend and kept it silenced so that he was always on hand, but there was only so many times I could excuse myself to visit the bathroom before someone commented on my bladder capacity. I shudder to think what someone like the old crone Madame Ophelia would say if she saw me with a phone. The 'redundant Muggle contraptions', as she liked to term them.

But even better than messaging, we called one another; religiously at night and sometimes in the morning too if I could squeeze it in before I had to leave for whatever was planned for the day. I found that, unlike the quietness Al usually presented when around other people, he seemed to speak more freely when it was over the phone. Almost like when it was just the two of us, which I supposed it was. At times, it took my father actually frowning at me as he insisted that it was 'time to leave' for me to put the phone down.

It was terribly hard. I just wanted to talk to Al so desperately. I'd never wanted to spend time with anyone so much – ever – and now that I did, the restrictions placed on my social life were vexing to the extreme. Even with my old friends, all graduated and thoroughly embedded in their careers, I had never felt such an urgent desire to simply be with someone. Call it endorphins or the honeymoon period, I didn't care; I just wanted to see Al.

Which was why tonight, for the first time since we'd parted ways with mutual grins at the station, I was actually looking forward to a formal dinner party and not just because I moderately enjoyed tying Lord Hermenway into a tangle with my words; he was so fun to mess with.

A knock at my bedroom door drew my attention from attempting to fix my hair once more and I turned to my mother stepping through the doorway. Astoria Malfoy was as much an image of the public as her husband was, and she was wearing that image to a fault tonight. Resplendent in an azure silk gown trimmed in white lace, with paler blue lacing at the bodice, she was elegant and refined, regal and stately. Even her hair looked like it had been sculptured from marble, the brown curled coiled into ringlets that cascaded about her shoulders. She didn't have an unruly lock of hair that simply wouldn't stay put.

Stepping into the room, mother gave me a smile. "You look wonderful, dear." It was her usual praise, but nonetheless accurate. I didn't have to be arrogant to know as much.

"As do you, Mother," I replied, as much a pleasantry as because it was similarly true.

Mother smiled, her blue eyes shining as though she'd never received a compliment before. "Are you ready?"

"Just about."

"Yes, I would agree, save for…" Mother drew her wand from her sleeve and with a flick of wordless magic cast a charm at my head. I didn't have to look at the mirror to know that stray lock was now firmly affixed. She never did tell me what charms she used, though. "Perfect." She smiled, satisfied.

"Thank you, Mother. You perfectionistic tendencies are always appreciated." I deliberately omitted the fact that I pertained to such perfectionism myself. Mother knew the truth of the matter anyway.

"Well, we can't have you looking any less than your best for such a special night."

I sighed, hiding my embarrassment. I knew from experience that Mother hardly cared all that much about the Board meetings themselves, which meant she referred to only one thing. "Mother, he will hardly care what I look like, I assure you."

"Do you know that for certain?"

"I'm positive."

"Such confidence! It fills me with delight, truly." As though to punctuate her emotion, Mother clasped her hands together at her chest, her face slipping into a sickly sweet visage of fondness and adoration. I couldn't quite keep my cheeks from flushing. Mother frequently had that effect on me with the displays of her indulgences.

"Mother, please. It is the first time we've ever shared anything even approaching a date, and it's with the Board as an audience at that. Don't blow this out of proportion."

"I'm not, dear, I'm not," Mother held up a placating hand. "I am merely stating that in the early days of a relationship, it is favourable to put your best foot forwards. That is, if you intend to further pursue such a relationship."

"You know I do," I drawled, raising an eyebrow. Mother only smiled more widely. She looked like she would burst with pride.

Far be it from Al's worries, or his apparent suspicions as to the homophobia of my family, Mother in particular had taken to my request to bring Albus Potter along to the Board of Directors New Years dinner as though she were a child let loose in Honeydukes free reign. She'd gasped, she'd fluttered her fingers, she'd gushed and preened and demanded I tell her everything of our relationship so far, from how we had met, to how we had gotten together and up to the present.

I'd had to skim briefly over the details, especially of how we'd met – I think perhaps she would have looked less favourably upon our relationship had she known the reality – but Mother didn't even seem to notice. She was a gossipmonger for anything faintly romantic. It was a widely known fact in the Wizarding world: father was the politician, the diplomat, the businessman, while mother was as adept at configuring the relationships around her as a master matchmaker. She simply adored perfect young love and at the arousal of such topics turned into a completely different person from the refined middle-aged woman she appeared otherwise.

Father had been less flamboyant and ecstatic, but he had not expressed disgruntlement or even mild disapproval. He'd raised an eyebrow when I'd mentioned it was a boy I was dating, and the other eyebrow rose to join the first when I'd named that boy to be Albus Potter. He had not, however, commented on the relationship itself. He'd merely stated that, "So long as he's dressed appropriately and demonstrates adequate punctuality and manners, you are more than welcome to bring him to dinner."

In fact, later, in a show of surprising concern from a man largely regarded as being a bit of a cold-hearted minister, he'd called me into his office and elaborated. He was almost severe in his approach.

"Now Scorpius, the New Years dinner is not as ground in protocol and tradition as those we've attended these last days, but be wary."

I'd frowned. "Wary, Father?"

"I am not certain as to how young Mr Potter will take to such an environment. I am aware that the Potters largely avoid such formal meets."

I couldn't help my indignation from rising, from making itself known in my words. "Are you saying that you're worried he'll make a scene? That he won't know how to act appropriately?" I clicked my tongue, indignant towards my father that he would think as such in a way as I had rarely been before. "That is uncalled for, Father. I'm sure Albus is aware of the proper way to comport himself. And even if he isn't, it doesn't matter. He's my date, and that should be the only thing that concerns anyone."

I hadn't realised my back had straightened almost painfully until the moment I finished speaking. My indignation grew into annoyance, an annoyance that resolutely ignored the fact that, until recently, I probably would have been as sceptical of Al's ability to uphold any semblance of neutrality in public as my father apparently was. Al didn't exactly present a favourable first impression, what with his silences and introversion. That impression itself was so vastly different to the reality of his character that I felt I felt I should almost undertake a personal vendetta to ensure everybody else in the world was aware of how incredible he was. I only found him more so the more I talked to him, and I found that those little 'deterrents' of his first impression were actually truly wonderful parts of who Al was.

Surprisingly, Father had rolled his eyes and affixed me with a scathing stare. "Actually, Scorpius, that was not what I was going to say." He'd paused and waited for me to grasp a-hold of my vexation. Father had the patience of a pondering boulder, something that I lacked – I think it was the influence of my mother's more volatile nature, though Mother said Father was prone to outbursts in his youth too – and it was all I could do to let my annoyance appear to die, even if it didn't truly. "What I meant was that I hope you will keep an eye out for his wellbeing tonight. I am aware that, as a Potter, the Board will likely attempt to pry any inkling of knowledge or opinion that he grasps, irrelevant that it may be, and cast it upon the table. I hope I don't need to enforce your role in such a situation."

And just like that, my simmering indignation had switched abruptly to guilt. Oh. Father wasn't offending Al in the slightest. He was looking out for him. "Of course, Father. I understand. I understand my duty perfectly well." And I did. I would have to be the Protego before the aggressive charms loosed from the Board members as they sought to batter at any of Al's defences. Defences that he had likely developed only sparingly for such situations, if at all.

Father had stared at me silently for a moment, and staring back at him I was confused to see something like regret flicker across his face. Almost… sadness. It vanished quickly, however, and before I could consider it further he continued. "Many of the Board members are old and… bored." His lips had twitched at the unintentional pun and it had been my turn to roll my eyes. He'd become serious once more a moment later, however. "I am sure that, given his parentage, they would revel in the chance to prod and poke at him. And I am not unfamiliar with the image the media has painted him to be; Albus is something of the black sheep of the Potter family."

"There's nothing wrong with that," I'd muttered through gritted teeth. "He's perfectly –"

"I am not saying it is a conception I agree with," Father had overridden me, raising his voice just slightly. "I am merely indicating that I am aware of how others perceive him and that some of those 'others' include the Board members. I hope that you will see to ensuring the comfort of Harry Potter's son throughout the evening."

I'd always been curious as to my father's opinion of Al's father. They'd apparently been rivals in their adolescence, but in that moment the respect I so often witnessed when he spoke of him rose to the fore. It was odd, but I got the impression that Father actually cared for Albus' wellbeing; genuinely cared, if only because of his relation to the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

How odd.

But strange as it was, I'd felt a rush of warmth flood through me. I hadn't been looking for my parents' approval – at least not in this instance – and would have continued my relationship with Al even had they looked upon in unfavourably. Because I wanted it, with an intensity that surprised me, an intensity I'd never experienced in anything before to the point that it was almost daunting. But even resolute as I was, it felt gratifying that they would so respect my inclination.

There was something to be said for parental support, no matter how old you get.

Though admittedly sometimes it did get a little smothering. Such as in the way that Mother couldn't seem to resist attempting to smooth my robes, despite that she had told me only moments before that I looked 'perfect'.

"Mother, please. I'm not a mannequin; the folds will shift the moment I take a step. There is no need for your fussing," I said, sighing down at my mother's bowed head as she fiddled with my collar. She only nodded absently and patted my shoulder once more.

"I know, dear. I'm merely making sure." Of what, I didn't know. Nor particularly did I care.

Taking a step back from her picking fingers, I straightened my back. "I had best be off if we are to make dinner in time."

The distracted focus my mother fixed upon my robes shifted in an instant and she was beaming once more. "Of course." She waved a sweeping hand at me, as though urging me to hasten in my departure. "Away with you, away! Bring me my… your little date. I do so wish to meet him." And she clasped her hands at her chest once more. I didn't like to think what she was going to say before she'd so obviously corrected herself. Mother scared me a little with her intensity.

Nodding, feeling an excited – and admittedly nervous – smile tug at my cheeks once more, I strode from the room.

I'd never been to Godric's Hollow before. Apparently it used to be a small town, barely large enough to warrant the title of a settlement, but not anymore. Ever since the Potters decided to move there twenty years ago, real estate had soared through the roof. At that time, everyone had wanted a little piece of Harry Potter, and if all they could get was to be neighbours with him then… well, it was more than most people got.

I strode along the outskirts of town from the Apparation point, following what had obviously once been a negligible footpath yet was now extensive as it led to the Potter's house. It wasn't far, I knew; I made Al tell me how many steps exactly it took him from the Apparation point, just to see if he'd tell me. He hadn't quite snorted, but I could hear it anyway across the distance between us, and the next morning he'd messaged a simple '1981'. It was one of my favourite exchanges, as much for its pointed brevity as for the fact that he'd actually counted.

At exactly one thousand six-hundred and fifteen steps – because I suppose I had longer strides than Al – I stopped before the Potter estate.

It was picture perfect in a way that Malfoy Manor would never attain. It positively breathed homeliness. Fairly large, though nothing outstanding, it was a Tudor-style two-story cottage from the half-timbered façade to the cross-gabled roof, and yet despite the historical accuracy it carried an air of modernity about its whitewashed walls. Which was to be expected, really; everyone knew the house had been a burnt shell before Harry Potter had outfitted it.

There was nothing remaining of that broken husk now, however. Windows glinted off the last of the dying sun, casting a golden shine across a modest front garden and seeming to rid me of the chill of the approaching evening. It bathed the front lawn, colouring the thin blanket of snow in yellow and illuminating the little stepping stone path that led to the front veranda, up the shallow steps to the front door. Wide windows unshrouded by curtains beamed their own light – electrical, not candle – and gave an overall impression of merriment radiating from the house. I had nothing against my own home, but the Potter house certainly seemed more approachable.

Striding up the footpath, I alighted the stairs and, searching for and pressing the doorbell – it was always more proper to ring the doorbell than to knock, of course, even regarding a manual bell – I waited. A merry chime rung through the house, bouncing off walls and weaving through the distant, muffled voices I could hear from inside. There was a call, a raised voice, and a reply that sounded like Al's voice, followed by rapid footsteps. An instant later the carved oaken door swung inwards.

Al was already smiling at me before he'd even fully opened the door. He was a vision of excitement, with just a touch of nerves. Just like me. I couldn't contain my own smile in reply.

"Scor. Hi!" From that simple statement, I could see that Al seemed unable to withhold his enthusiasm; it trickled through his words and the little breathless, embarrassed laugh he uttered an instant later. He kept himself hooked around the half-open door, his head lowered slightly, and shuffled from one foot to the other. Well, maybe he was just a bit more nervous than I was, but I'd come to expect that from Al. He got nervous sometimes; it was just a part of his character that I found terribly endearing.

Merlin, I was whipped. Already. When did that happen?

"Good evening, Mr Potter," I intoned with mock solemnity, striving to alleviate his nervousness. "You look dazzling, as always."

It was meant to be a joke, and Al took it as such. Though a faint blush coloured his cheeks, he laughed again, more naturally this time, and actually took a step away from the shielding door. It was no less true, however, which I was rapidly coming to realise. I liked how Al dressed himself normally – it was just so perfectly him that I wouldn't want to change it one bit – but he cleaned up remarkably well.

Dressed in a flowing, bottle green robe just a shade darker than his eyes, he was outfitted as a typical high-class wizard so perfectly that it seemed almost impossible to consider that he lived most of his life in torn jeans and a dirt-stained t-shirt. The robes were tailored, fitting perfectly to his frame, and in the latest style of tight midsection, low collar and wide, draping sleeves. He'd done something to his hair, too, taming the usual tangled tresses into a perfect dark curtain that just faintly curled and settled a little above his shoulders. More than that, I don't think he wore make-up or used Blushing Charms, but there was something about his face that simply glowed. I couldn't draw my eyes away from him even if I'd wanted to and was only shaken from my appreciative gaze when Al finally found his words.

"And you, Mr Malfoy. Positively dashing, though I suppose that's only to be expected. I would have been ashamed to accompany you if you'd presented yourself as anything but."

I adopted an expression of false affront. "Me, less than perfection? Never consider the possibility, dear Albus. It makes me shudder to conceive!" I raised a dramatic hand to my temple, wrinkling my brow in feigned horror. It didn't last long before we dissolved into giggles.

My brief flight of nervousness dissipated almost instantly. I'd worried at first that there would be awkwardness. That the time we'd spent apart after so abruptly initiating our closer relationship would put a dampener on the situation. Even talking at every opportunity, even calling one another, wasn't the same as meeting in person. I hadn't realised quite how much of a difference there was until I experienced a demonstration of the 'meeting'. But it wasn't awkward. Not in the slightest. It was… fantastic.

Al seemed to have relaxed slightly too, the tightness slowly draining from his shoulders. "We should probably go?"

I nodded. "Yes, dinner's booked for seven o'clock, but decorum dictates that, as the bookers of the event, we arrive at least half an hour early."

"Oh, woe is me that I'm subjected to bloody decorum," Al muttered, but he was smiling. I snorted and completely failed to hide my own smirk. Shaking his head ruefully, Al glanced over his shoulder. "Mum! I'm leaving!"

Somewhere within the depths of the house, a voice echoed with the words "Oh! Oh, already?!"

"It's nearly six-thirty. I told you when I was leaving," Al called back.

There was the sound of footsteps hastening up the hallway. I peered over Al's shoulder to glimpse inside – a wide hallway, dotted with a low pew-like chair and a beautifully carved table boasting a vase of poinsettia and a garland of holly – and offered a subdued smile as Mrs Potter tottered towards the door. A relatively short, homely woman with vibrant red hair and a smattering of freckles across her face, she was the sort of person that immediately put others at ease. that reeked of 'affability'. She was beaming in a way that reminded me of my own mother's genuine smile, yet even more broadly, and I didn't need to be a genius to discern her thoughts. They likely adhered quite closely to Mother's.

"Scorpius, how wonderful to see you! Did you have a nice Christmas?"

Not really, it was horribly boring. "It was lovely, Mrs Potter. And yourself?"

Mrs Potter waved away the formality. "Call me Ginny, please. Mrs Potter makes me feel so old. And yes, wonderful; we had the whole family over for lunch and dinner, Mum made her famous banquet of pies, and even Charlie managed to get some time off –"

"Mum, please?" Al interrupted with a long-suffering sigh. I bit back a smile. Evidently Mrs Potter – Ginny – was something of a polar opposite to Al when it came to talking to strangers. Funny that. "When I said 'I'm leaving at about six-thirty', I really meant I'm supposed to already be gone."

"Oh! Yes, of course." Ginny quickly pulled Al into a hug and pressed a kiss onto his cheek. Surprisingly, Al didn't seem the least bit perturbed by the display of affection. I'd have thought he would be more reluctant, given the shyness of his nature. Ginny released her son a moment later. "Make sure you message me when you know what time you'll be out to, alright."

"Yes, Mum, I will. I'm not James, you don't have to remind me a hundred times."

"I know you're not; that boy would forget his head if it wasn't screwed on properly." She smiled fondly as though it were an old joke before turning to me again. "You should drop around some time, Scorpius. We'd love to have you over for a visit. Maybe dinner some time?"

I smiled politely, even if I felt a twinge of disappointment curl in my gut. "I'd love to, Mrs Po- Ginny. Perhaps some other time? Unfortunately I find myself a little overbooked this holidays."

"Yes, Al said you were busy when I asked him. But any time, really, we'd be more than happy to –"

"Mum," Al interrupted again. "Leaving. Now."

"Yes, yes, of course. Alright then." Ginny took a step back from the door. "You boys have fun!"

"We will," Al offered as he started through the door, nudging me down the veranda steps. The reply was very mechanical; I doubted he even heard himself say it.

"Lovely to see you again, Mrs… Ginny," I farewelled over my shoulder. "Until next time." Ginny waved in reply.

"Sorry about that," Al muttered as we tripped across the stepping stones and turned from the footpath onto the sidewalk. He pursed his lips, brow wrinkling. "I know you said not to be late and actually meant it."

I shrugged. "It's fine. I personally wouldn't mind if we were a little bit late. Maybe it would set the Director's noses out of joint a little."

Al shot me a crooked smile. "You wouldn't. You're far to punctual for that." He was right, of course; I wouldn't want to leave my father hanging, embarrassed by his son's tardiness.

In that moment though, my mind was as far from Directors and formal dinners as could be; I was just a little bit captivated with the boy walking at my side. So much that I didn't even really pay attention to where he led us; it was realistic to presume it would be back to the Apparation point, my rational mind told me. It didn't concern me in the slightest; my eyes were glued on Al.

How had I never seen it before? How had he hidden it until now? Because somehow, over the months I'd known him, I hadn't realised that Al was sort of, a little bit, maybe, hugely attractive. Or maybe it was just me; maybe I really was experiencing the honeymoon period, where everything seemed bright and perfect. Or perhaps it was simply driven by my delight at the assurance that this boy walking beside me was, to a degree, mine.

For whatever reason, the glow didn't die from Al's face and I couldn't draw my eyes away. Could barely shift my gaze from the perfect cupids bow of his lips and didn't even hear the words he said that drew my attention towards them. His eyes sparkled, whether due to the surrounding ambiance or just a marked contrast to the dark lashes that lined them. Even his jaw, his neck, the flatness of his brow; all of it just seemed fascinatingly appealing to me. Appealing in a way that I'd never found a girl, not even Winona.

Which, I suppose, might have been the issue with our relationship. There was nothing wrong with my partner, exactly. She was just… the wrong sort of partner. When exactly did I start to find men attractive? Did I actually find men other than Al attractive? I liked to think that I appreciate beauty in an individual regardless of there gender, but maybe -

"It's kind of Christmas colours."

There was a slight uplift to the end of Al's words that was almost a question, drawing my attention. "Sorry, what was that?"

Al shot me an amused sideways smile. "Off with the fairies, were we? You're worse than Ozzy."

"Something like that," I admitted. I couldn't even come up with a good retort because I was staring at Al's mouth again, and would it be too forward of me to kiss him? Too soon?

Al gave me a half-smile. "I just said that in red and green we're kind of like the Christmas colours." He gestured towards our robes, sweeping an appreciative hand along my own burgundy outfit. "How cliché of us. Though red does suits you remarkably well."

I bit back the upwelling of warm pleasure at Al's compliment. "Why, thank you. Just never breathe those words around my Grandfather?"

"Gryffindor-basher?"

"My grandfather is the definitive Gryffindor-basher." Which might have been exaggerating it a bit, but not by much. "I'm surprised my father turned out so well, actually."

"And you even better," Al added. It was off-handed – I didn't even know if he realised he said it – but the warmth grew further at that simple comment. He gripped my hand a moment later, stalling me to a halt. "You're gonna have to Apparate us. I don't know where we're going."

I nodded, pulling out my wand and paused in the act of initiating our jump as I glanced around us. Yes, it was right beside that old oak tree I remembered, just in sight of the pale brick house with the impressively overgrown lawn. "Are you nervous?" I'd noticed his run his hand quickly through his hair in his token gesture of 'I'm feeling a little bit – or a lot bit – uncomfortable right now'.

Al twisted his lips. "'Course. Did you expect me not to be?"

That was true. "There's nothing to be nervous about."

"Except sharing dinner with a bunch of stuck up, pompous Directors who all think they're god's gift to the world and would have a heart attack if they thought I considered them anything less? Or that I'm officially meeting my boyfriends parents for the first time?"

I couldn't help but chuckle slightly, even as a flicker of delight zapped through me at being referred to as AL's boyfriend. "Yes, apart from that. Nothing at all."

"Oh, well then, by golly, what are we waiting for?"

I laughed again, feeling the last residues of my disgruntlement that our first date would be with an audience of stuffy old men and women fade. My amusement seemed to ease Al somewhat, for when I offered him my hand to Apparate he readily dropped his own from tugging at his fringe and clasped it.

"We'll make it fun," I assured him. "I promise."

There was a faint apology to my words that I didn't mean to include but sincerely felt nonetheless. Al apparently heard it too, for his handhold tightened slightly around my fingers and he gave me a grateful smile. "I'll hold you to that."

Apparating to a place you've never personally visited was hard. Nearly impossible, really. Apparating somewhere you've visited only fleetingly is nearly as difficult. I managed, but allowed myself a faint sigh of relief when I glanced around myself and found that we'd upon on the corner of Pearl Street and the Boulevard. It was a predominantly Wizarding part of London, so basically the whole of Pearl Street was an Apparation point. Blessedly, really, because I'm fairly certain I landed about a foot to the side of where I'd intended.

"Alright, so the Hotel Marquess should be just about…" My hand still holding Al's, I tugged us down the street through the thin scattering of wizards and witches. It was an impressive street, all tall, old-fashioned buildings with the modern flair that of floor-to-ceiling windows on the lower levels, shining vibrant yellow light across the darkening ice-slicked pavement. Every single establishment was high-class and nauseatingly expensive, and the hotel we were dining at stood at the head of the pack. I didn't have to look far to spot it; ridiculously, the three-storey building actually seemed to glow golden, and it wasn't just from the light bathing through its wide windows.

"The Hotel Marquess… Jesus Christ," Al muttered, shaking his head incredulously, but there was a quiver to his lips that suggested he was more amused than disgruntled or intimidated. I couldn't help grinning at the sight of it; I had a feeling I might be fighting to withhold such an expression quite a bit throughout the night.

Leading Al into the lobby – through crystal-fronted double doors and onto Carrara marble flooring that reflected the dancing lights from the overhead chandelier because of course it would be as extravagant as possible – I immediately pinpointed my mother and father across the room. Standing before the wide, red-carpet draped marble staircase, they were talking to a party of men and women – the Directors and their accompaniments who had already arrived. All seemed in the process of avoiding being swatted by the grand gesticulations of Lord Alphonsus as he swept his arms widely and puffed out his bloated belly in a pompous bluster that looked ridiculous coming from anyone who wasn't entirely sober. Though it was hard to tell the sobriety of Alphonsus sometimes; he held his liquor well, a by-product of keeping a refillable flask of whiskey at his belt that he thought no one knew about.

Everyone knew, of course. And if Alphonsus ever read 'Secrets of the High-Class' magazine once in a while, he'd know that everyone knew, too.

Mother saw us the moment we stepped inside the warmth of the foyer. With a whispered word to Father, she glided across the room towards us. A sedate smile settled upon her lips, restrained in a way that contrasted to the delight that danced in her eyes. She spared a nod of recognition for me before focusing her attention entirely upon Al.

"Mr Potter, it's such a pleasure to finally meet you. Scorpius has told me so much about you."

Which I hadn't. Or… I didn't think I had. I was sure I hadn't. At least, not since Mother had commented that Al seemed to be coming up in conversation an awful lot since the holidays began.

Al, to my surprise, didn't withdraw from her and attempt to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. Nor did he adopt an overly-assertive-to-the-point-of-aggressive approach that I may have anticipated as an alternative if he was disconcerted. He'd never done so before that I'd witnessed, but it was always a possibility for nervous situations.

No, quite the opposite, Al offered a restrained smile of his own to my mother alongside a proffered hand. "Mrs Malfoy, a pleasure to finally officially meet you too. Please, call me Al. Or Albus, whichever you'd prefer."

Mother beamed, her eyes, if possible, flashing even more brightly. "Long awaited, is it not, Albus? I must thank you for joining us for dinner this evening, although I fear it may be a little dry for those of us not on the Board." She sighed lightly in a public display of blank-eyed dumb trophy wife. She played that role remarkably well at times, even more respectably given her true nature.

An instant later, however, she was smiling her genuine smile once more, her eyelids flickering briefly in an subtle wink at Al. "We'll have to leave the boring talk to my husband, I believe, and attempt to actually enjoy the night, yes?"

Al smiled once more, just the right amount for the situation. I felt my eyebrows rise slightly, surprised once more. Al was actually conducting himself… perfectly. "Of course, Mrs Malfoy. I believe that societal expectation dictates that someone must be the life of the party."

Mother laughed in a sound of actual amusement, unfeigned entirely. She seemed to have discarded her usual ploy of adopting a public façade for a greater purpose. "So true! We shall have to fill that role, then, Albus."

Their exchange continued back and forth, not anything particularly deep or interesting but enough that I could see Mother's curiosity of Al heighten and manifest into blatant favour. I myself was largely emitted from their conversation, which was probably a blessing in disguise. It surprised me to no end, seeing this side of Al, and though I found it slightly disconcerting I could also observe with genuine curiosity and attentiveness.

This was my Al, talking and acting with my mother as though he'd been raised in pureblood society his entire life. Even his words sounded a little different; I don't think he uttered a word of slang once, let alone cussed.

When the maître d', resplendent in tailcoat robes and slick-backed hair, announced in subdued tones that our table was ready, Mother offered a final warm smile – genuinely warm – to Al and drifted elegantly back to my father's side where he was beginning to lead the Directors up the stairs. She cast a telling glance towards me over her shoulder, then to Al at my side, as she rested a hand on Father's arm, and I had to bite back a groan. I could almost hear her thought blaring wedding bells and honeymoon plans. It was our first date, for Merlin's sake!

"We going?"

I glanced towards Al, shaking myself out of my exasperation. He was staring at me with an eyebrow quirked questioningly, an expression that was so like my Al that it was disconcerting how fast he could switch from being the public pure-blood lookalike to normal.

Nodding, I led us in the wake of the Directors. "What, pray tell, was that?"

"What, pray tell, was what?" Al replied, mimicking me like Caesar. And that was definitely my Al. Even his voice, his words, sounded grounded back in the familiar.

I rolled my eyes, easing with the return of the familiar as we made our way up the stairs. "Don't play dumb with me, Al. It's terribly unbecoming. I meant the whole act for my mother." An act I was sure she saw straight through but appreciated nonetheless. Being able to adopt a public character, I knew, was a verified skill to her.

"Oh, that." Al shrugged, tugging at his fringe before making what I could see was the concerted effort to stop himself. "Nothing, really. You do it all the time, I'm sure."

Which I did, but I'd still rather he answered me properly. "Yes, but I didn't know that you pulled stunts like that."

Al sighed, exasperated, and lifted his eyes from their rolling at the extravagantly carpeted steps beneath his feet. He fixed me with a stare that was faintly amused and a lot condescending. "Look, Scor, you're not the only one who has to pull an act in front of the world every now and then."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning my dad's Harry Bloody Potter," Al stated shortly, as though that explained everything. I had to admit that it sort of did. He elaborated after a brief pause, however. "I've had to know how I'm supposed to act in front of random strangers and pollies and the media and whatnot since I was born."

The words hit a little too close to home for me, resounding thoroughly, though it didn't exactly hurt. More… I felt an upwelling of empathy towards Al, an empathy that I hadn't known could possibly exist before. We shared many common interests, but our family situations had always seemed so vastly different; the Potters were the fun-loving, loved-by-the-masses hero family, while the Malfoys were refined, upstanding and reserved. I'd never thought that we would both share the need to pretend in front of the world. It left me with an unexpectedly warm feeling.

"Tell me about it," I muttered, and Al nodded his own empathy at my side.

Dinner was, expectedly, a boring affair. Or it would have been boring had Al not been beside me, positioned between myself and my mother and offering an almost inaudible exchange of comments that left me struggling not to burst into laughter. Like when he commented on the Directors and their partners, one instance in particular leaving him looking utterly horrified at the observation what appeared to be a small, desiccated bird atop Lady Agrave's hair, though somehow managed to conceal it before anyone but me noticed. Not that it helped; I couldn't look at the woman again for the rest of the night.

Or when he muttered through a fixed smile at the excessive arrangement of cutlery, which I had always privately agreed with though never aloud, and why it mattered so much whether the duck was from Spain or Italy because it was still just 'duck'. I couldn't help but drop a vegan comment at the words; the hotel catered to practically every dietary specification, so Al didn't have to eat the Spanish duck, but it was too great of an opportunity to miss.

Or, most surprisingly, when he actually started humming along to the piano under his breath as though he actually knew the song, replying with a shrug when I whispered incredulously to him where such an interest had come from and simply stating, "the guy's no Bach or anything, but he'd pretty good".

I did my best to be as entertaining as possible within the bounds of propriety, and I think I did a fairly good job if my brief and confounding discussion with Lord Hermenway – it was bound to happen at some point during the night – was any indication. Al, unfortunately, had been taking a sip of wine at the time and performed perhaps his only social blunder of the evening when he snorted some of it back out through his nose in an attempt to suppress his laughter. There were a few frowns from some of the surrounding Directors, but I didn't really care and I don't think Al did all that much either. Besides, the only opinion I did care about, despite resolutely proclaiming that it didn't influence me at all, was that of my mother and father. Mother gave a small, vacant smile that managed to conceal her true amusement while Father frowned but tightened his lips in a way I knew meant he was suppressing the urge to do the same.

What had truly surprised me that evening, however, was when the dessert was served. Al was holding aloft the trio of three-pronged forks of different lengths between his fingers, looking pointedly between me and them in a way that required me to forcibly divert my gaze or else risk chortling aloud, when Lord Ponting spoke up from the other end of the table with a quiver of whiskered jowls.

"Albus Potter. It is you, isn't it?"

Not only my own and Al's attention was caught by the words; just about everybody else at the table turned too. Not because Ponting was particularly loud but because these were nobles who had an ear for that sort of thing.

I'd known it was going to happen sometime tonight. If no one commented on the fact that a Malfoy and a Potter were dating, then at least his presence would be noted. I was honestly surprised it had taken until dessert, actually.

Perhaps it was because I had been watching him so closely that night, but this time, before Al adopted the character he'd first presented to my mother, I saw a microsecond of uneasiness, of dread and almost queasiness, flash across his face. It was gone an instant later and he smiled politely. "It most certainly is, Lord Ponting."

"Ah, I didn't recognise you. How is your father doing?"

"Very well, my lord. I believe he has just finished a case."

Ponting, and several other faces, immediately became greedily curious. "Is that so? And what case might that be?"

"A classified case, to be sure," Al replied coyly. There was a ripple of amusement at his deliberately obtuse reply. It was entirely appropriate for the situation and would have seemed as though he were playing the room with utter finesse except for the slight tightening of his features. I doubted anyone else even noticed except me, but it was enough that I knew his casualness to be a farce.

Ponting didn't laugh at the statement; he seemed instead to take the comment with sincere solemnity. "Of course. Classified." He nodded, then made a deliberate effort to change the subject. "But my, how you've grown since last we saw one another. It's been, what, six years now?"

"Almost seven, my lord," Al corrected with another polite smile. "I think it was at the ball for the meet for the Reassessment of International Underage Wizarding Laws?" He frowned slightly, as though unsure. Uncertain or not I was quite impressed by his ability to recall anything of detail from that long ago. I wondered if he was making it up; he could have gotten away with it with Ponting.

"Yes, yes of course. The meet." Ponting nodded, squinting through his pince nez with wrinkled grey eyebrows furrowing further and jowls jostling slightly as his mouth quirked curiously. "You're in school now, aren't you? Fourth year or fifth?"

Oh. Right. I'd forgotten that Ponting was bordering on the truly forgetful at present. Reportedly he had been since he was forty, so it was no wonder that at nearly seventy he was a bit further on in his deterioration. I sighed quietly, sympathetic to Al at being the centre of the man's attention, and nudged him under the table with my knee. He nudged me back in acknowledgement.

"Seventh year, my lord. I've nearly completed my schooling."

"Seventh year? Really?" Ponting frowned further, a little listlessly, his overgrown eyebrows twitching like huddled mice squatting above his eyes. "Well, of course. And your brother – what was his… James. James?" At Al's nod, Ponting continued. "He'd be nearly finished by now too, yes?"

I bit back a groan and the urge to drop my head into my hands. I was almost embarrassed for Ponting. He really needed to be replaced. Unfortunately, it was likely to be his equally-addled daughter who succeeded him, and that would probably make the situation worse.

Al, to his credit, paused for only a second before replying. "Yes, my lord. He is." I almost smirked at the slowness of his tone, as though Al spoke to a child and deliberately prevented himself from correcting Ponting's oversight as to his brother's academic progression.

"And what are you to be doing with yourself when you finish school? Into Magical Law Enforcement like your father? Or is it quidditch that you'd rather pursue?" Ponting continued. "Follow in your parent's footsteps, eh? Just like young Scorpius here?"

I just managed to suppress a flinch at Ponting's words. I shifted my attention to my plate but for the life of me couldn't have said what was on it. The conversation around the table had begun once more, quietly in respect to Ponting's increasing deafness and the distance of his conversation partner, but it quietened at the question, eyes turning curiously towards Al. He was, after all, Harry Potter's child. His future was the concern of all wizards and witches.

I felt another upwelling of sympathy for Al in that moment. Yes, there was actually a little bit to be commented on between us, some very definite similarities. Of course the public would see Al as having only two options: Auror or quidditch player. Though I found myself similarly curious as to his response, I felt myself fighting not to scowl at Ponting. It was rude and hurtful to remind Al – and I admitted I saw myself in him at least a little bit – of the expectations set upon him. I was on the verge of speaking when Al replied.

"Actually, my lord, I doubt I'll pursue either. I've found my interests lie in other areas."

An eerie quiet met his words, eyebrows rising and lips puckering in surprise. Ponting's frown, impossibly, deepened further. "Other areas? And what might those be?"

I thought that, perhaps, Al paled a shade lighter than usual. And I didn't think it was my imagination that, when his hand slipped beneath the table, he clutched at the tablecloth tightly. His voice, however, was still steady. "I have long harboured a fondness for Herbology, my lord. I had hoped that my future career would allow me to follow that interest."

It wasn't quiet any longer, though the words of the whispering voices couldn't be clearly heard. Frowns deepened and lips turned slightly downwards, noses twitching in irritation. I could hear it nonetheless, however: Harry Potter's son, becoming a Herbologist? This was not how it was supposed to happen.

I exchanged a brief glance with my mother behind Al's back – his shoulders, I noticed, were markedly tighter than they had been five minutes before – and by unspoken agreement we decided to intervene. As my date and accompaniment, it was not only my desire but my duty to protect Al from the vulpine pecking of the Directors.

As it turned out, however, my intervention was unnecessary, for the husband of Lord Xiu spoke up with enthusiasm. "Oh, you have an interest in Herbology? How wonderful! I've always been fascinated by magical plants."

Like an ice-pick shattering thin glass, the man's words dispelled the darkly descending mood and stemmed any further whispers pertaining to it. What ensued instead was an animated descent into the discussion of plants, which lead to the status of international trade of Dancing Hyacinth's that had erupted recently, and the situation was diverted.

It took a while for Al's tension to ease, but when I nudged his knee again with my own, drawing his attention to my questioning and apologetic gaze, he offered a small smile and a shrug. I knew he was far from unaffected by the offhanded question and response of the Directors; more than that, I knew it felt absolutely terrible to be under such scrutiny, such disapproval and objection. But I didn't bring it up, and resolved not to when a moment later Al was back to rolling his eyes at the forks, the fourth one being presented with the delivery of the little fruit-bowl pallet cleansers.

The Directors dinner was not supposed to be a political or governmental affair. It had it's moments, of course – the Dancing Hyacinths and the current status of the Muggle-Wizarding exchange rate being two of them – but by and large it was simply a dance of verbal omissions and innuendos as each and every single board member and their accompaniments poked and prodded to get a rise out of their fellows. Such was always the way. They were like a pack of hyenas nipping at the heels of their perceived rivals. By the time the elderly swarm finally decided to make a move from the table, I was well and truly ready to leave.

Not, however, so ready to take Al home. Which I should have done, really, considering it was actually quite late. As we stepped out only the slick footpath along Pearl Street, Al and I were immediately cast aglow with the illumination of will o' the wisp lighting that danced before and above the front of each building. A faint, almost imperceptible shower of snowflakes had begun to fall, unfelt at first but enough to quickly fleck both Al and myself in tiny spots of pure white.

We wandered a little away from the milling Directors as they spoke their final words before cracking with Apparation. Mother and Father had become engaged in an animated conversation with the ever-enthusiastic Lord Alphonsus once more. As I glanced over my shoulder, I caught my mother's eye and couldn't help rolling my own at the gleam in them.

Dear Merlin, she was a woman with a mission. I was already anticipating her gushing when we got home. She seemed quite taken with Al, if the small smiles she'd showered upon him throughout the dinner was any indication, and had only restrained herself because it was 'proper'.

I wasn't saying that I wouldn't have dated Al if my parent's hadn't approved. I thought, given that I'd been on cloud nine since we'd officially decided to try dating – to say nothing of the realisation of my heightened feelings tonight – that even had they actively hated him I would have continued with this new thing we had. Still, it was gratifying to know, all the same.

We wandered in comfortable silence for a while, revelling in both one another's company and the absence of observers. I'd enjoyed our evening surprisingly well given who else was involved, and I didn't particularly want it to end.

Still, it was late. And I had an early morning the next day. Again.

Al seemed to remember in the same moment as I did; I'd told him every booking I had over the holidays to try and work out some way of meeting up, and though it didn't do either of us any good to come up blank at least he knew.

"Thanks for inviting me along tonight," Al murmured as we reached the end of the street. His voice was quiet but audible in the absence of surrounding chatter.

"I can assure you, it was entirely my pleasure," I replied just as quietly, offering a smile and glancing at him sideways. "Speaking from experience, it would have been much worse had you not been there."

"Then I'm glad I could help," Al smiled back at me. And just like that, the last traces of that 'good little boy' that he'd presented to the Directors all night – if not me specifically – was shed.

It got me thinking. "You actually talked to people tonight." At Al's bemused expression I smirked and expanded. "I mean you actually chose to speak to people."

"I do that sometimes," Al replied slowly, mockingly with a note of condescension. "It's sort of expected."

Oh, did I know all about that. I shrugged. "I just assumed you'd do your usual quiet thing. The thing you do at school."

Al shrugged in turn. "I told you, I'm not exactly a barbarian when it comes to social conventions. Dad went through the whole 'important people visiting for dinner' stage when I was younger. I think he's managed to divert most attempts these days, but I know what's expected of me."

"But why? Why did you bother?" It was strange; at school Al never seemed to care much about what other people thought of him and actively excluded himself from our classmates with the exception of Rhali, Ozzy and, recently, myself. I knew he was prone to fits of nervousness, but he didn't seem to care what others thought of him. At least, I hadn't thought he'd cared.

Al stopped in the forward motion of his stroll, urging me to halt beside him. I turned curiously. "I don't usually bother. With anything. Seriously, Scor, don't you know me at all?" He smirked and I couldn't help but smile, even when he became serious a moment later. "I know you probably think it's because I'm lazy – and it is, a little bit. There's no denying that – but it's not only that. I don't really want to care about what they think." Al shrugged again. "But it was only for tonight. I can grit my teeth and suck it up."

"But… why?"

Al's gaze became curious and he cocked his head. "Isn't it obvious?" As I shook my head, frowning, he puffed out a sigh that blew his fringe in a flutter. He adopted a strange expression that I couldn't read for a moment until I realised… embarrassed? Was he embarrassed? Finally, after shifting uncomfortably beneath my stare, he continued. "I didn't want to screw anything up for you and make things awkward.

I was rendered speechless for a moment. Which was a big thing for me. An instant later, my legs were moving with a will of there own, urging me towards the inclination I'd been longing for days now. Weeks, even. Raising my hands to cup his face, I finally kissed him.

It was awkward at first. Awkward and chaste as Al froze in surprise. Until a moment later he eased  into me, lips parting and head tilting and suddenly it wasn't awkward, or even very chaste.

It felt like bliss. I'd never experienced anything like it before; I didn't know something like kissing could be so good. The softness of lips, the exchange of breath, the feel of Al's hands as one clasped the back my neck and the other rose to hold mine that cupped his cheek.

When we pulled apart it was to the sound of gasps and regret that caused us both to remain as close to one another as possible. For we were close, I realised, somehow had closed the distance between us until we were nearly pressed against one another. I found I didn't have any objection to the positioning.

Tilting my head down slightly to meet Al's steady gaze, I felt a moment of apprehension at the intensity I saw presented. "Sorry, was that…?"

Before I could urge myself to finish, a stupid, lovable grin spread across Al's face. "And just what the hell do you think you're apologising for, Scorpius Malfoy? If you think you can take back a kiss like that with an apology then think again. 'Cause you're gonna have to fight me for it."

All of it, the smile, the affirmation, the very warmth of him as Al stood so close to me, driving away any chill of the winter night that managed to seep through the Warming Charms interwoven in my robes; all of it was too perfect. I couldn't help myself, and didn't really want to, so fell right back into kissing him.

Later, I would reflect that, as far as first kisses went, that which I'd shared with Al couldn't really have gone any better. At all. It was the perfect way to end an evening that could have been so dull I was driven to tear my hair out.

But it hadn't been dull. Not in the least. If nothing else I'd learned something new about Al, something I hadn't anticipated. Several somethings. He was a lot like me; he too was burdened by the weight of societal expectation. But unlike me, he chose to actively defy it.

To me, it was just a little inspiring. Almost as momentous as the kiss.

But not quite.


	10. My Idea of Horror

Whoever came up with the idealistic image of 'waking up with a smile on your face' is full of it. Really. It didn't happen. I was sure of it.

It is possible, however, to break into an achingly wide smile a split second after waking as a truly joyous memory sweeps you off your feet. I could stand testimony to that. And that is probably one of the best ways to wake up.

Awakening to the memory of my sort-of-date with Scor… it could only possibly have been improved if Scor was actually lying in the bed next to me. A thought that was ridiculously arousing in and of itself and served to keep me abed with my thoughts for a little longer than I usually would with the comfort of my own hand rather than Scor.

When I did finally clamber out of bed – after straightening and tidying myself with the assistance of a quick Scourgify – it was slowly and languidly, holding onto the last moments of the warm embrace of my blankets for as long as possible. I didn't technically need to be out of bed given that it was still the holidays, which meant I very rarely surfaced before midday, but blame it on my good-humour or whatever but I suddenly felt the urge to do something. Anything. Drifting idly over to my window, I peeled open the curtains to allow sunlight to flood through my room. White sunlight, filtered by falling snow and ice that left a foggy opaqueness on the glass, a chill that failed to pervade the room.

My mood refused to be dampened by the coolness that brought a shiver to my skin. Because last night… last night had been fabulous. In spite of the lack of privacy, and in spite of the potential for boredom in the face of the directors droning monotones, I – and I think Scor as well – had actually thoroughly enjoyed myself. Granted, the kiss was a significant contribution to that conclusion, as well as our few stolen moments before Scor left me on my doorstep and disappeared into the night.

It had been strange, glimpsing into the activities I'd only heard about through Scor's bemoaning of his busy schedule. Rightfully bemoaning, to be fair; if I'd been subjected to a dinner like what we'd had last night without Scor's company, or to a succession of such dinners, then I'd probably be whinging about it too. It felt good, though, to share that night. As though I'd gotten to know Scor just a little better. And even a little better was better.

Not to mention I'd finally met his parents. Sort of. We didn't really get to talk much – I didn't even share a word with – but Scor had informed me as we walked up the path to my house that they liked me. I'm not sure how he knew, as I didn't see him talk to them either in any sort of privacy either, but he seemed very confident in his deductions. Real confidence, not that fake front he put on sometimes.

That had made me happy too, almost as much as the kiss had. I keow Scor wouldn't dump me if his parents disapproved of me in the slightest – mostly because he told me as much, though I liked to think I'd already had that faith in him – but it was reassuring even so. I knew how much Scor's parent's opinions meant to him. That I'd apparently ticked a few boxes… it felt really, really good.

I didn't know why it was, but whenever I felt in a good mood I always had the urge to be around my family. Maybe it was an unconscious desire to offer them a bright, happy face for once in apology for the many times I'd offered them otherwise. I wasn't going to deny that if there was anyone I did want to see it would be Scor first and foremost, but the family came in at a relatively close second. By my Tempus Charm's eleven o'clock - early for me - I left my room, not bothering to change from the old shirt and baggy bottoms I wore as pyjamas, and made my way downstairs.

Our house wasn't exactly huge, but it easily held my entire family. Including James, despite the fact he was a national quidditch player and had more than enough personal wealth to find himself a respectable house of his own. I wasn't sure if he'd ever leave; he probably found it too convenient, too much of a hassle to find a place for himself. Typical James. But anyway, because of it's size, I didn't hear the voices of my family speaking in heated and anxious tones until I was already halfway towards the dining room, yawning my way down the hallway.

"...going to stay secret for long, we knew that." That was Dad, and he sounded regretful, almost guilty.

"It was never a secret in the first place," Mum replied. "And why should it be? There's nothing wrong with it, just Julianne Picket jumping on an easy target. She's a devil, that woman. Almost as bad as Skeeter was."

"I can't believe you guys didn't even tell me," James grumbled. He was quieter than Mum or Dad, sounding more as though he spoke to himself than to anyone in particular.

Lily's distinctive sigh sounded a moment later. "For God's sake, James, get over yourself. How could you have even missed it? He's practically all Al's talked about the entire holidays." I heard Mum and Dad's murmurs of agreement and could almost see James shifting from foot-to-foot as he did when he'd overlooked something obvious. It happened more often than he cared to admit.

I frowned, pausing just outside the half-open door into the dining-slash-kitchen area. They were talking about me. Talking about me talking about someone - which, let's be honest, was probably Scor if I considered the rest of Lily's statement - and it had them worried. Something about keeping it a secret? Who wanted to keep it a secret? Keep what a secret?

"It's not a problem," Mum reiterated, the force in her tone suggesting she was attempting to convince herself as much as everyone else. "It's not. We'll... we'll deal with this, like we have every situation beforehand."

"But this is Al," Lily pointed out, her voice slow and deliberate. My frown deepened at that; my sister sounded more than a little condescending. "He never deals well with stuff like this."

"Stuff like what," I interrupted as, having enough of eavesdropping, I stepped through the door. As one, four pairs of eyes snapped towards me; Dad and Lily were at the table, a newspaper spread between them - likely only just arrived as the Tuesday edition always came late. Mum and James leaned on either side of the kitchen island counter, Mum with her elbows propped on the granite tops and James slumping backwards, long legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded across his chest. Guilt flashed in varying degrees across each face and slowly Mum pushed herself up to standing straight.

"Good morning, Al. Or," she paused, her eyes flickering for a moment towards the grandfather clock across the room. "Yes, morning. Would you like anything for breakfast? Or brunch, I suppose is more appropriate."

Her voice was too casual for me not to suspect something was afoot, even had I not overheard the conversation that had abruptly ceased as I entered the room. Sweeping my eyes in a swift scan around the room, still frowning, I caught sight of Lily gradually slipping the newspaper from the table onto her lap. An obvious attempt to hide it, one that Dad evidently felt was futile given the resigned expression on his face. "No, thanks, that's okay. Um... What were you guys talking about?"

In an instant, not only Dad's face depicted resignation; it settled upon all four of them like masks of mimicry. Mum sighed softly while Dad sat forward in his seat and held his hand out to Lily in request. Even with all attention fixed upon her, Lily still looked as though she was considering making an attempt at flight, paper-prize in hand. Not that she would have gotten far; James would have her pinned to the floor before she made it halfway up the hallway. I knew this because it had happened before more times than I could count.

With a sigh that mirrored Mum's to the exact pitch, Lily pulled the folded paper from her lap and spread it once more across the table. I felt an upwelling of foreboding settle with steady growth in my chest; there are few things I hate more than newspapers. Especially the Daily Prophet.

"It's really not anything all that significant," Mum assured me. She swept around the island counter to my side, patting a hand on my shoulder in a comforting way that counteracted her words. It actually made me even more uneasy.

Cautiously casting a wary glance towards each member of my family, I stepped up to the dining table and propped my hands on either side of the paper. It took only a glance at the opened page to discern what all the fuss was about.

SECRET TRYSTS: MALFOYS AND POTTERS OVERCOME THEIR DIFFERENCES AT LAST.

Beneath the headline was a picture, and as I watched the reel play to its conclusion before repeating once more, I felt bile rise in the back of my throat. It was a picture of me. Me and Scor. Kissing. That first time, that single time, the only actual kiss we'd shared, and some arsehole had caught it on camera and sold it to the Daily Prophet.

Because of course they would. The scandal, of a Potter and a Malfoy being amicable, let alone in a relationship! I could feel my face tighten almost painfully as I drew my eyes to the fine, printed words below. They reeked of Julianne Picket so profoundly that her tagged name was unnecessary.

New Years Eve. A peaceful evening of light snowfall and celebration. In the aftermath of Christmas, it is a time for joy and excitement, for reflection and appreciation, for friendship and familial love.

For the children of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, it is a different kind of love that sings in the air. Cupid has fired his arrow once more and, as evidenced by the images gleaned from our source, appear to be more deeply embroiled than was previously considered.

The Potter's and the Malfoy's have always shared animosity. Since their days in Hogwarts, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have been temperate at best; avid rivals at worst. Despite the effects of the Second Wizarding War and the truce made between the two men, that they would never develop a bond of friendship was always apparent.

Not so, it would seem, for their children.

Enjoying an evening at the Hotel Marquess amidst the reputable Board of Directors, Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy were seen to demonstrate a closer-than-friends relationship throughout the dinner. "There was something about the way they looked at each other, about the way they sat beside one another, that made me think there was something going on deeper than was suspected," comments Ursula, daughter of Lord Hermenway. "Just some of the things that Scorpius was saying to my father gave me the impression he was showing off a bit. As one would before their boyfriend."

Our source, a chance passer-by, caught a glimpse of the pair wandering down Pearl Street in what appeared to be 'closer than casual' proximity. A suspicion that proved entirely true when, shortly after leaving their dinner partners, the young men demonstrated that their relationship was indeed more than Just Friends.

What can this mean for the relationship between the Potters and the Malfoys? Are the two families turning over a new leaf? Have the sons of our beloved hero and the respectable CEO of LeFay Connected initiated what could described as the most unlikely of unions between our respectable Wizarding families? Or is only disaster on the horizon for the young sweethearts?

And the question on all of our lips: how long will it last? For what possible motivation could there be for the initiation of these two most opposite young men?

The story continued with speculations that became more and more outrageous, bulked out with quotations from people I'd barely even heard of. I didn't read any further, not really. Like a magnet my eyes were drawn back to the black and white picture of myself and Scor. The ecstasy of the moment, the golden trim of that all-too-knew, happy memory in my mind, was tarnished by the greedy words of the media. By a fucking gossipmonger who had wheedled their way into the ranks of Prophet's reporters.

I knew I shouldn't care. I shouldn't; really, what did Picket know? What did anyone know of mine and Scor's relationship except what we expressly chose to tell them? And more than that, why did their opinion even matter? I knew it shouldn't. It really shouldn't concern me that anybody had an opinion about my boyfriend except me and perhaps my friends and family. I mean, why did they even care? Was it a slow week for news or something? What possible incentive could the Niffler Picket possibly have for sniffing out that particular pot of leprechaun gold?

I knew both mine and Scor's dads were famous; everybody knew that. They had been for years and their school rivalry was common knowledge for about as long. Not only were they renowned for their part in the Second Wizarding War but since then they had both been public figures; Dad was Head of the Auror department, the youngest there had been for generations, while Mr Malfoy was the head of that Le Fay International Relations and Funding business that was apparently a really big deal, though I hadn't taken a huge amount of interest in the subject until very recently. They were celebrities. Idols of a sort. People looked up to them as they would any idealised figure. With those bloody expectations, of course they would be the topic of conversation for anything within their behaviour that was deemed 'unexpected'.

Dad had always hated the publicity. Always. He'd never been one to revel in his celebrity status, and apparently, according to Scor, while Mr Malfoy had used his own fame as a stepping stone of sorts, he similarly preferred to keep out of the limelight. For our family, my early childhood had been a series of slipping into the shadows between camera flashes and attempting to avoid public notice as much as possible. No one wanted their every move to be common knowledge for the entirety of Wizarding Britain.

It had died down a little in recent years, thank God. There was still the odd story every now and again - Mum's brief stint as a coach for the junior Flying Squirrels team three years ago, James' rise into her footsteps and his latest athletic feats, Dads particularly noteworthy cases and their impact upon society - but generally nothing all that personal. There was the occasional rebuffing of the old stories, the questions of 'who were the Potters really?' and 'what were they like?' I'd come to hate those stories with a passion; it was horrible, having some random journalist make assumptions about your life from the most trivial pieces of information. If I'd known it would have such a huge influence on speculation as to Mum and Dad's parenting skills, I never would have so strongly insisted on going without shoes to that picnic in the Royal Botanical Gardens when I was twelve.

Everything was always honed in upon and blown out of proportion.

Admittedly, the story wasn't all that bad. I mean, there was no overt outcry over the fact that Scor and I were actually dating, only about what it would mean for our families. About possible under-the-table machinations that pervaded our relationship. And about what it meant for 'the world'.

But still... It kind of felt like shit. What I had with Scor was new and a little bit scary, but it was exciting too and I was actually having the time of my life. Which was saying something, because other than the dinner the previous night we had only been communicating by letters and - blessed be technology, I praise you - phone over the past few weeks. But even that had been special. Like a dam that had been broken between us to allow an onrush of suppressed thoughts and feelings to crash forth, we talked and talked and talked about everything. Both superficial and deep. Things I wouldn't have even thought to talk to Rhali or Ozzy about, like the fact that I had a secret herb garden of very unusual but still very legal magical plants out the back of Neville's place that was just for us. Similarly, Scor told me about things I'd never expected to hear come from him. About his old friends, about how he truly felt about following in his father's footsteps - which was not happy.

And that article... it felt as though it had stained the specialness somehow. Stupidly, because it wasn't supposed to have any influence at all. It shouldn't have. Shouldn't - and yet still somehow managed to. The nausea that had risen in the back of my throat returned with a vengeance and I had to clamp my mouth closed just in case I should happen to spill what remained of the delicious cuisine from the night before all over the table. It was a struggle.

I didn't know how long I just stared at the paper for, at the picture of Scor and I as it gradually became uglier and uglier. All I knew was that in that time I rapidly lost the precious glow that had shrouded me since the night before. Eventually, though, I became aware of Mum's hand as it shifted from gentle squeezing to compassionate rubs to my shoulder.

Without raising my head I glanced towards her. "This is what you were talking about, huh?"

Mum's face was sympathetic but warily so. As though she worried that anything resembling pity might cause me to snap. Was I really that bad? I mean, the instance with the exclusive speculation into my personal life that had been printed when I was ten... admittedly my reaction had been explosive then, but that was seven years ago.

Mum wasn't the only one to shroud themselves in caution like a blanket. Dad raised himself slowly to his feet and walked around the table towards me with so much casualness he looked like he was lost in the middle of his own house. "It's really nothing that huge, Al. Just Picket sticking her nose where it doesn't belong."

"Snooty cow," Lily chimed in helpfully, and it was a credit to the focus of everyone's attention that Mum didn't scold her for the mild curse. I turned my gaze with hazy numbness towards her. She was frowning angrily, accusingly, at the newspaper, as though to blame it for any slight it might have afforded. Which, admittedly, it had.

"There wasn't even anything in it that was that exceptional," James added, nudging his glasses further up his nose. I wondered with the same half-heartedness as I always did, with a detached curiosity that buzzed along the edges of my whirring thoughts, why he bothered to wear them still when optometrists had potions to fix eye problems nowadays. I think it probably had something to do with trying to look like Dad; he did, if one overlooked the extra half a foot of height. "I mean, she's grasping at straws if this is the best she can do."

"And she doesn't know anything," Mum continued for him. There was a hard edge to her tone, one that I recognised as being indicative of suppressed vengeful protectiveness. She met my eyes fiercely as I glanced back towards her, narrowing her own slightly. "You don't let anything that horrid woman says get to you, Albus Severus. What is between you and Scorpius is entirely your business and no one else's. These little clippings," and she sent her own venomous glare towards the paper, one that left Lily's impression floundering behind in its dust, "are complete bollocks."

Mum's curse startled me from my stupor. And not just me, apparently, for it wasn't only my own eyebrows that rose at her words. Oh, every one of us in the family knew Ginny Weasley had a wicked tongue back in the day; every teenager under the sun had the right to explore the boundaries of their vocabulary. She still did practice it when she was a little into her drinks, but never when sober. And she absolutely forbade such language in the house. At all times.

So it was unexpected to hear even such a laughable cuss as that. I felt myself feebly unravel from my spiral of muddled thoughts enough to attempt to appear as though I was steadying myself. I could only attempt, however, because inside my head my stupid brain was jumping from question to fruitless question, babbling on and on about the opinions of people that I didn't know and shouldn't care about and what influence if could have on mine and Scor's relationship.

"Thanks, Mum." I offered a weak smile, hoping it actually looked genuine. I didn't think I managed so well, because not a one of my parents or siblings looked even the slightest bit convinced that I'd brushed off the article.

Stupid, stupid article.

"I'm sure no one with an ounce of sense actually reads Picket's stories anyway," Lily muttered, her tone slightly hesitant as though she was cautiously testing the waters. Her fingers were gradually sliding the paper off the table once more. "You shouldn't worry about it."

"I'm not, Lil. Really, it's… it's like you said. It's not really that bad or anything." I gestured towards the newspaper a moment before it slipped into Lily's lap. "I mean, there was nothing even all that malicious in there."

"Course not," James put in. "Picket's never so obvious as that. Underhanded bitch."

"James," Mum warned, and though it was in the same tone as the one she always used to scold for bad language, I was pretty sure it was directed more at the statement as a whole.

"It's okay, Mum. Really, it's okay. I'm, um…" I trailed off, not sure where I was going with the statement. My entire family looked at me expectantly and a little worriedly. They knew I was upset, but like avoiding the elephant in the room I also knew that we would overlook that upset it until it became a problem.

We always had. That's just how we dealt with my anxiety problem. It was probably not the most appropriate approach, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Forcing another feeble smile onto my face, I sidled towards the hallway once more to flee from the kitchen. Any inclination to be around my family had dwindled with the death of my good-humour; it wasn't that I wanted to actively avoid my family or anything, but it was disconcerting to have them so concerned for me. I really didn't like it; much better to secrete myself into my room.

Mum caught me before I'd made three steps, however. "Won't you have something to eat? I can cook up some beans on toast if you'd like." Her tone was bright, a little overloud, in an attempt at casualness. The intensity of her gaze spoke otherwise, though.

I shook my head. "No… no thanks. I'm not really hungry." And, before Mum could protest further, I continued. "I think I might just go and give Scor a call. Just, you know, see how… everything is."

Mum's words visibly died on her tongue and she seemed at a little bit of a loss of how to continue. Dad took the baton of replies from her, however. With his own attempt at cheer, he gave me an affectionate smile. He was better at those forced smiles than Mum; I think it has to do with so many years being the prime target of the paparazzi. "Sure thing, Al. Just make sure you come down and get something for lunch, okay?"

"Yeah, will do, Dad." I nodded and, taking the opportunity he presented, I strode from the room, nearly ran down the hallway and up the stairs and fell into my room. It took an effort to close the door gently rather than slam it.

My hands flew to my phone at my nightstand without my deliberate consent as I slumped onto my bed. Scor picked up on the second ring, even though I knew he was supposed to be heading out to a formal lunch with his friend Tatsuya.

"Al?"

"Scor. Did –?"

"You saw the article?"

I released a heavy breath that I really hope didn't sound as much like a sob over the phone as it did in my own ears. I strove for casualness in my reply. "Um, yeah. Yeah, I saw it."

"Are you…?" Scor's voice was deep and intense and I could almost see him glaring at some distant figure accusingly. I bit my lip in wait for his words, readying a light-hearted reply as I listened to the buzz of background crowds on his end. When he finally continued it was not as I'd predicted. "Al, I really, truly must apologise."

"You- What?"

"Honestly, I am so terribly sorry for what happened."

Sitting up straight on my bed, I frowned. Confusion warred against the nausea that still swum through me and tickled the back of my throat. It actually managed to balance it out a little. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Scor sighed heavily, sounding a lot older through phone than he did in person. "It was my fault that it happened in such a public place. And just after the Director's dinner? There was bound to be someone waiting to take a snap or two. I'm just really –"

"Why on earth would you apologise for that, you idiot?" I actually laughed incredulously at that. Genuinely laughed. And if it was a little on the hysterical side… well, I hoped the distance of electronic communication would cover for me. "I seem to recall that I was as much a participant in the situation as you were." I paused, frowning once more. "I mean, I assumed I was."

Scor chuckled on his end of the phone, though he too sounded a little strained. "Well, I don't know who else it was if not you."

"Exactly. So don't try and apologise for me. You sound stupid."

"Thanks for your kindness, Al," Scor muttered sarcastically. But then his tone smoothed and became concerned a moment later. "But really, are you alright?"

I went right on back to gnawing at my lip. "I guess." I wasn't. And as soon as our mutual teasing stopped, I was made aware of the fact again. "I'm just… I mean, it'll pass and… ho-how are you? Did your Dad get angry at you or anything?"

"Father?" Scor replied, as though clarifying. He sounded faintly incredulous. "Was Father angry? About the kiss or the article?"

"Both, I guess."

"Well, he didn't care a wit that we kissed. That's what boyfriends do, you know," Scor relayed condescendingly. I chose to overlook that condescension for the moment. "But about the article? Yeah, he was angry. Really angry, actually. He said that the media has no business in the affairs of his child and that child's personal life."

I made a noise of agreement. "Yeah, my family sort of said the same thing."

"I think more than anything Father was just angry that our picture was taken without permission. I'm fairly certain he taken out a restraining order for that sort of thing, though I'm not entirely certain if it includes me in the fine print." He sighed again, and I could almost picture him squeezing the bridge of his nose in that way he does in weary exasperation. "I spoke to him about what to do."

"And?"

"Well, Father's quite practiced at manipulating the media. Even if such manipulation involves intimidation and blackmail more often than not. From about the moment he opened the paper this morning he was right on top of pushing for a counter article to allay any beliefs that our relationship is for political or underhanded purposes. Or, in fact, that it's anyone's business but ours."

I felt my lips smile waveringly as I listened to Scor's words. My nerves were still frayed and I actually found myself twitching a little in my attempt at sitting immobile. I wasn't feeling better exactly, but the simple act of talking to Scor at least stopped me from feeling worse. I honestly had no idea why I was still feeling so highly strung; it hardly even seemed related to the article anymore. Just my nerves being a pain in the arse. "Does he think he'll manage it?"

"I'm not sure. But even failing that, I'm certain that he'll jump on Picket's back to quell her flapping tongue. Or quill, more appropriately."

"That would be… good."

There was a pause from the other end of the phone. When Scor spoke once more there was a note of concern – or deeper concern – underlying his tone. "You're not alright at all, are you?"

I had to take my own pause at that. It was always harder to keep myself composed when someone actually spotted how close I was to falling apart. "I'm fine, Scor. Really, it's just stupid, and Picket is being stupid and annoying, and it's all just really, really stupid."

"Yes," Scor replied slowly. "But do you –"

He cut off abruptly and in a hollow echo that bespoke a third party speaker I heard something that sounded like a question. Scor replied, too quietly for me to make out, as though he'd dropped the phone from his ear, and was clearly directed to someone else. There was a short, fast exchange between them, an assurance of kinds to finish up, and the sound of the phone being handled rustling down the line. "Al?"

"You've gotta go. Sorry, I won't keep you."

"No, Al, really. It's alright. Tatsuya's just –"

I sighed with an attempt at my usual scolding exasperation. I had to blink back a sudden fuzziness in my eyes as I fastened my gaze on my knees. One hand rose to tug sharply at my fringe, an attempt to calm the steadily rising nerves once more. "Scor? Shut up and hang up the phone."

"I'm not going to just stop talking to you now –"

"You'd better, 'cause I'm gonna hang up on you." I swallowed around a lump in my throat painfully. "You'll just be talking to a dead phone. Or I can put Caesar on, if you'd like."

"Al," Scor reattempted, his voice serious and hard in concern. Did I really sound so bad as to warrant such worry? I mean, I wasn't the only one freaking out about the article, right? Sure, I might be a bit more all over the place than Scor, but… "Tell me what's going on. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking…" I paused, swallowed again and fought once more to control the wavering of my voice. "That I'm absolutely starving. And you're keeping me from my breakfast."

The sound of Scor's breathing filtered through the phone for a moment. How he managed to make even those soft exhalations seem frustrated was beyond me. Eventually he gave a soft laugh, though that one didn't sound very sincere either. "You're not fooling anyone, you know."

I had to smile at that. It really was a bit of a feeble attempt. "Yeah, whatever. Go away now."

"I'll talk to you later, Al."

"Okay. Talk later."

And the phone cut out.

Giving another sharp tug to my fringe I tossed my phone onto the doona beside me. Falling back onto the mattress, I stared at without really seeing the ceiling overhead and attempted to get a handle on the pointless clamouring of my thoughts.

The talk with Scor had helped temporarily, but that help didn't last long. Logically, I knew the situation was nothing huge. I knew how fickle the media and their puppet-strung readers were with every new story that arose. What made an appearance on the front page one day would become old news and irrelevant the next. So even if there had been something incriminating in the article – which, really, there hadn't been; just a whole lot of pointless circling around stupid, unanswerable questions – the hype would die down soon.

Still, even knowing this, even with the reassurance of Scor and my family, I couldn't help the jumping and fluttering in my belly that clawed towards queasiness, or the rising throbbing in my temple that I knew would manifest into a headache within the hour if it wasn't quelled. The pointless thoughts that I attempted stem because they were – yes – pointless and unhelpful and blown far out of proportion had already begun to impart their effects towards my physical state rather than simply my mental instability.

I knew the drill; I used to have panic attacks of sorts when I was younger, so I was familiar with how to cope with rising anxiety. Even if I couldn't always do anything about it. Breathe slowly, close my eyes, attempt to relax taut muscles and concentrate on the rush of air into and out of my lungs rather than the whirlwind of thoughts in my mind. It worked sometimes, and I knew that Mum and Dad thought that it was because of these professionally taught coping mechanisms that I was actually handling my anxieties with any competency.

It did help. To a degree. At least, it did when I could actually manage to shunt my hammering thoughts to the side long enough to think with a modicum of clarity. It wasn't the main helper, though, not really. James and Lily at least knew it was because I relied on an anxiolytic of sorts with my Harproot. Mum and Dad didn't know, of course. I would never hear the end of it, and I was pretty sure they'd go so far as to deliberately shackle my Herbology hobby if they did. Poor Neville; he'd probably cop some of Mum's famous scolding for it too.

So while I did use my 'independent methods', I could pretty assuredly state that was the drugs that worked the miracles. I should probably get that looked into, find a different crutch, but… well, it worked.

And at that moment, the inclination to snap a leaf of Harproot from the little plant on my windowsill was awfully tempting.

I resisted for a little while, pondering the ceiling and struggling to maintain steady breathing. It didn't take long, though, for the urge to grow too great. Sitting abruptly upright, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, relief already tingling across my skin at the anticipated easing of the Harproot's effects.

I'd hardly made it across the room, however, when my door swung inwards. I stopped short, glancing over my shoulder and refusing to look guilty.

Ozzy stood in the doorway. His appearance was so unexpected that any attention given to maintaining my presence of innocence abruptly dissipated.

He leant against the frame of the door, panting with his head half bowed as though he'd run to my house from his place at St. Albens. Which, given his competency with Apparation, he likely almost had. It was not unheard of for Ozzy to miss his mark by nearly a kilometre; I honestly didn't know how he passed his test. He seemed rumpled, his crop of hair somehow managing to look askew, his baggy jeans wrinkled as though picked up from being discarded on the floor and white t-shirt threaded inside out. He was even more of a mess than usual, which was saying something. Even Ozzy admitted he was a little haphazard.

"Hey, Ozzy. What are you doing here?" I attempted off-handedness, and it was actually surprisingly easy to mimic considering my only-gradually dying jitteriness. The intent stare that Ozzy turned upon he deterred any furthering of the attempts, though.

"Is it true?"

I frowned, taking a half step further away from the doorway, away from Ozzy. It was unintentional and I felt sort of guilty for doing it. More so when a flicker of hurt flashed across Ozzy' face as they dropped to my feet. "What?"

His eyes rose to meet my own once more. With one hand he reached behind him and pulled a newspaper from the back of his jeans. I felt my heart sink. "This," Ozzy supplied, quickly opening the paper and holding up The Article.

I swallowed thickly as the cause of my only slightly curbed distress confronted me once more. I cursed that I hadn't thought to harvest my Harproot sooner. "Which part of it?"

Ozzy glanced between myself and the paper, his face hard and tense. I didn't really know why; was he angry that Picket had printed the story? Or angry at the possibility of a 'fake relationship'? "All of it. You. Him. Are you… together?"

A frown impressed itself into my brow, quelling my nausea slightly. That was not exactly the direction I'd thought the conversation would take. "What, me and Scor? Are we seeing each other?" At Ozzy's curt nod I raised a quizzical eyebrow and looked pointedly at the paper held in his hands. "Um… well, yeah. They've got the photographic evidence and everything. Is that… is that a problem?"

I hadn't thought it would be. I hadn't thought that Rhali or Ozzy would possibly have a problem with Scor and I dating. After all, they liked him, didn't they? Or was that the problem in itself? Were they freaked out that two of their friends would start dating? I'd heard of friendships falling apart over such things. It made me feel terribly guilty that I hadn't told them both sooner; I'd wanted to, as soon as Scor and I actually got together, but it didn't seem right to break the news to them with Scor's absence, which he had been for the entire holidays. So we decided to wait.

Apparently… that was the wrong decision.

Ozzy slowly lowered the newspaper, his grasp white-knuckled on the edges. His face was still hard, sharp, strong jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles bulged. And he wouldn't look at me, instead training his gaze on the floor at my feet. That was the worst part. His eyes were horribly blank.

When he spoke, Ozzy's voice was pitched low, lower than I'd ever heard it. "A problem… I don't… it's not… I just…"

He was stumbling. Ozzy was stumbling. That was strange enough in itself because Ozzy was always casually eloquent, easy with words. But more than that, he… was that tears? His eyes looked glassy with them. "Ozzy, what is it? What's… Have we made you angry? What part? What -? That we didn't tell you? 'Cause if it is, Ozzy, I'm really sorry, we just –"

"All of it."

I stuttered to a halt at Ozzy's words. He hadn't spoken loudly, hadn't moved a muscle, but the slight crack in his voice bespoke barely withheld emotion. I felt an entirely new anxiety rise within me, for an entirely different reason. Ozzy was upset; I'd made Ozzy upset and I didn't even know why. "What do you mean? I don't know what –"

"All of it," Ozzy repeated, peering up at me with his head still bowed. His eyes were still glazed but tears hadn't yet fallen. "You and him, together. I can't… I hate it."

Oh. So it was how I thought. "Are you weirded out by two of your friends dating? 'Cause if it is, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I didn't…"

My voice died as Ozzy slowly shook his head. He had fixed his stare back on the floor and was swallowing again and again in quick successions. "I… I don't like you dating him. You can't… you can't be dating him…"

"Why…?" Anxiety caused my voice to warble slightly and I stunted my sentence for fear of making a fool of myself. Ozzy didn't need any furthering of the question anyway.

"Because." And he raised his gaze once more, his eyes heated behind the tears. "Because you should be dating me."

I stared at him. And stared. And stared. A pervasive blanket of numbness seemed to well within me before crashing with the force of a semi-trailer. "No I shouldn't."

"You –"

"No, Ozzy, I shouldn't. You fancy Lily. I mean, I know we've slept together. A lot. But you like –"

Ozzy was shaking his head again, more firmly now. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you do –"

"No, Al, I don't. It's you. It's always been you. I've fancied you for years now. Since second year."

I went right on back to staring. And staring. My mind didn't seem to be working properly. "But… but you said… because I look like Lily –"

"You honestly think you look all that much like Lily? I still can't believe you actually believed that excuse." Ozzy barked a harsh sound that could have been laughter but didn't particularly resemble it. It sounded more pained than amused. "But even so, no, I don't fancy Lily."

"But you said –"

"I know what I said!" Ozzy scrubbed the back of his hand across his forehead furiously. "I just said it because you said you didn't like me back the same way! And… and with that… if I couldn't date you, then at least I could…" He trailed off, still furiously rubbing his forehead and half-hiding his face.

And once more I went back to staring. Except beneath that my mind was a tumultuous cloud of confusion.

Ozzy. Ozzy fancied me. He fancied me enough that he actually wanted to date me, was upset at the thought that Scor and I were in a relationship. We'd slept together, with me under the allusion that it was purely physical, when for Ozzy –

Oh God. Oh my god. Ozzy fancied me, and we slept together, and I didn't even know, and now he was upset that I was dating someone else, and… and…

It was a bad day. It was a very, very bad day, and not just for the article in the newspaper. My nerves were wound as tightly as a bowstring, almost painfully taut. The lights suddenly seemed too bright as my vision wavered. I felt a wave of dizziness course through me, in tandem to the roiling in my gut. My legs became weak and I allowed myself to slide into a jumbled heap on the floor. Detachedly I was aware that I was breathing heavily, in short, sharp pants that seized my chest, but it was with a mere flicker of awareness. A similar flicker arose with the disjointed sound of words that I somehow perceived as being Ozzy's. They sounded strange, though, and were entirely unimportant considering the thoughts racing through my mind.

Guilt. I realised it was guilt in a horrified sort of way. How the hell had I managed to do that to Ozzy? How had I not noticed? This whole time, I'd thought we were sleeping together for the same reason; that it was purely for physical satisfaction. And it was. For me.

But not for Ozzy.

God, I'm a terrible person.

Terrible. Horrible. Disgusting. Poor, poor Ozzy, oh God, I'm so, so sorry. And how he found out about Scor and me. Could it have been any worse?

The crushing in my chest was sharply painful, had crawled up my throat. I couldn't see anything anymore, couldn't hear anything except for the thoughts running through my mind, the thudding pulse in my ears. Panic attack, I realised with certainty, detachedly recognising the familiar sequence for what it was.

Of course I'd have a panic attack now. Wonderful.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I struggled to gain a hold of my breathing. If I didn't manage it quickly then I'd pass out in a minute or so. I knew this, in the small corner of my mind that wasn't in the throughs of freaking out.

Breathe in… breathe out… breathe in…

I chanted the mantra, out of time with my own breaths but still striving to fulfil it anyway. It was bloody hard! Especially fighting with the ranting guilt and confusion that battered away at my mind in a raucous demand for attention.

But slowly, gradually, the constriction in my throat began to slow. The pounding in my head, both from what I realised was my heartbeat and the self-disgusted string of words on constant repeat, eased just slightly. Just enough for me to realise that my chanting was being echoed by words that weren't my own.

"Just breathe, Al. That's it. In and out. Breathe in… and out… in… and out…"

Ozzy. He was helping me. Even after such a revelation – and the expression on his face, in his eyes, flared in my mind once more – he was still trying to comfort me. To help me as I pathetically fell victim to my own nerves.

Even before I regained my visual senses, my eyes swum with tears. Blinking rapidly, my lips started babbling without my direction, a muffled echo in my ears. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Ozzy. I didn't know, I really didn't even think that… that you… Or I never would have… I wouldn't have forced you to –"

"Al." Ozzy's face appeared before me, swimming into clarity. His brow was furrowed, but in concern this time rather than pain and his shoulders were hunched to his ears. He was crouching, I realised, because… because I was sitting in a tangle of limbs on the carpet beside my bed. Yes, I remembered falling down now. That used to happen sometimes when I checked out in a fit of panic.

My breaths were easing, slowing to gasps that still heaved my chest but slowly allowed me to regain something approaching steadiness. The over-bright intensity of the sunlight trickling through the window dimmed like someone was turning down the dial on one of those dimmer-lights. I was very happy to have the ground firmly beneath me, even if it did rock slightly. Ozzy was talking, but I couldn't quite make out the words. His voice was gentle, calming, soothing.

Like Ozzy always was.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I squeezed my eyes together tightly once more before meeting Ozzy's stare. He just looked so concerned, any distress for his own situation overwhelmed in the face of my own.

That only made everything so much worse.

His lips were still moving, but I couldn't hold back my words to wait for him to finish whatever he was saying. "Ozzy, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know." I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back the rush of emotion that threatened to bring forth a sob.

Ozzy was silent. He stared at me for a moment, eyes intense but still kind and caring; it was just so like Ozzy that it was heartbreaking. "Of course you didn't, Al. I didn't want you to know."

I shook my head hunching my shoulders and dropping my chin to my chest to avoid his gaze. "I should have known. I should have. Ozzy, what I did to you –"

"What you did to me?" Ozzy's voice was incredulous enough that I raised my gaze. His eyebrows had risen, tenting above his eyes. "Al, I can assure you that everything we did together, every single time we had sex, it was entirely because I wanted to."

"But…" But I didn't know. I wanted to say. Didn't it hurt, to think that I didn't return your feelings? Because really, I didn't. Through all of the guilt and shame, the shock and confusion, I knew that much. I loved Ozzy, but it was a different sort of love to what I had for Scor.

And, in knowing that now, in knowing how Ozzy felt, I could only regret that we'd slept together. It was casual, no strings attached, but still, it wasn't fair. Not to him. If he truly fancied of me, it was a cruelty to dangle that metaphorical carrot.

"We shouldn't have been… Ozzy, we shouldn't have been doing that."

"Because of how I feel?" Ozzy had sunken onto his knees before me, his gangly limbs folded far more gracefully than my own. He rested his hands on his thighs, the newspaper between his fingers slipped forgotten to the floor. His concern had faded alongside the harshness of my breathing, though he still kept a watchful gaze fixed upon me.

Ozzy… I'm so sorry. You're such an incredible person. You deserve so much more than what I've given you.

I trained my eyes on his fingers because that was the only place I could force myself to look of him. I nodded. "I shouldn't have… I mean, I shouldn't have tempted you like that." It sounded ridiculous to my own ears but I realised it for the reality that it was. "It wasn't fair to you."

"Wasn't fair to me?" The exasperation in Ozzy's voice told me he was rolling his eyes, attempting casualness but not quite achieving it. "If anything, it's you that was treated unfairly, Al."

"Me?" I struggled to raise my gaze. It was hard, but finally I managed. Ozzy's stare rested upon me as a physical weight and I suddenly felt very weary. Panic attacks did that; they were utterly draining. I hadn't had one in years, but the effects are hard to forget. "How exactly do you figure?"

Ozzy shrugged. He'd apparently completely lost any awkwardness or embarrassment in confessing his feelings. "I knew you didn't see me like that, Al. But I just… I wanted you desperately. I still do, you know, even though I know it's never going to happen." I attempted to speak but he drowned me out. "I was selfish. Desperate and selfish. I just wanted anything of you that I could get."

He sounded like he was at a confessional. I stared at him, meeting his hooded gaze. Worn; that was how he looked. Worn and resigned. A prisoner walking the rickety plank of a ship. My mouth was hanging open slightly, and I struggled to close it before speaking. "You really do fancy me, don't you?"

It was a stupid thing to say. Absolutely stupid. Cruel, even, to point out the obvious, to reiterate it so pointedly. But Ozzy only nodded. "I know it won't come to anything. And I know it's wrong to still have sex with you anyway when we're on such different pages, when we think of it so differently, but I couldn't help myself. I didn't think you'd actually agree when I suggested it, but then you did. It felt like I'd been given the most wondrous gift in the world." He shrugged one shoulder loosely. "I thought once, years ago, that you might change your mind. I know better now, but I just couldn't help myself."

His words weren't meant to be a reprimand, but I felt myself flinch anyway. They smacked me like a whip and my guilt resurfaced once more from where it hadn't been entirely muted, though for an entirely different reason this time. I felt like I should have returned his feelings.

And when I thought about it, really, it was stranger that I didn't. Why didn't I? Ozzy was fantastic; he was one of the best people I knew. Why the hell didn't I fancy him?

The only reason was that I simply… didn't.

"I know you don't fancy me, and likely never will," Ozzy continued as though he'd heard my thoughts. His gaze upon me was sad but steady, and I felt like I was glimpsing an old pain that had long since healed but still had the ability to twinge at inappropriate times. "But for me, that doesn't change anything. I like you, Al, a lot. So much that I'd rather just settle for being your friend than nothing at all."

I shook my head slowly, not in denial but in miscomprehension. "But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the bloody hell would you fancy me?"

Ozzy snorted. "There's so many reasons, I couldn't even count them. And you'd likely not believe any of them if I told you."

I frowned, the weight of the situation easing slightly as we fell back into remarkably easy conversation. Even if the topic at hand was a little touchy, it really shouldn't have been so comfortable. "Are you teasing me?"

"Not at all."

"Then you're taking me for an idiot."

"No, not that either."

"Then tell me."

I don't know what pushed me to ask for it. Maybe some sense of validation? Maybe with the intent that, in asking for proof, I could prove myself that Ozzy didn't really see me that way. Maybe to show Ozzy that he didn't actually fancy me. But for the first time since he'd entered the room Ozzy smiled. There was confidence and fondness in his expression that didn't really encourage my hopes. "You're smart –"

I snorted.

"- and funny –"

"I'm sure only to you."

"- and gorgeous."

"Now I know you're making fun of me."

Ozzy ignored me. "You're weirdly obsessive –"

"And that's a good thing?"

"- and it comes across in the things you love, the things you're passionate about, because you just get so caught up in them that the whole world seems to fade out of importance when you do. And you might seem lazy about some things – maybe a lot of things – but I know that's only because they just hold no interest for you.

"You don't like appearing to be good at things because it draws unwanted attention. And you don't like seeming better at anything than me, because you don't want me to feel stupid. And even though you really do hate it when anyone does offer you more attention than you want, you'll always take one for the team if it looks like your friends will cop it if you don't. You hate peas but you love beans, your favourite colour is blue but a really ugly blue because you've always felt sorry that no one would ever pick that shade to be there favourite colour, and the pair of gloves you wear for weeding are actually about ten years old and just enlarged because they were your first and you can't bring yourself to replace them with new ones."

I stared at Ozzy, eyes wide and staring. It wasn't so much the words that left me dumbfounded but the tone in which he spoke, the small smile on his face and slightly distant expression in his eyes. I'd never seen Ozzy look like that before. It rendered even my protestations mute.

"You treat your plants like they're your children and when you think no one's around you talk to them and sometimes sing. And I love to hear you sing, even if you're not all that much of a singer, because you've got a weirdly beautiful voice anyway. You always have dirt under your fingernails but it never bothers you, except in Astronomy for some reason when you decide that cleaning them right then is the most important thing in the world. And even though you do suck at Astronomy, you'd never ask for help from me or Rhali, even when you're so ready to offer it to the both of us if we ask in return. And –"

"Wait," I choked out, holding up a hand. I felt like I'd been dunked in a tub of cold water and, far be it from the warmth and adulation that compliments should elicit, I felt faintly sick because… yes. Ozzy did like me. He liked me a lot. And it was painfully obvious even from just the expression on his face to say nothing of his endless tirade of observations. "That's… that's enough. I…"

"You believe me now?" Ozzy met my eyes kindly. There was no pushiness in his expression, no urging for reciprocation. I could only nod in reply. "Good. Then at least we've got that settled."

A hush fell over the both of us as we just stared at one another. It wasn't uncomfortable, but the silence was certainly loud. "Shit, Ozzy."

"I know," he murmured, a little sadly.

"Shit, I mean… I didn't even realise."

"Yeah, I know."

Swallowing, I wetted my lips to speak something other than a croak. "Does Rhali know about this?"

"About how I feel?" I nodded. Ozzy sighed, humming thoughtfully. He seemed peaceful, relaxed even, despite the bombshell he'd just dropped. Or perhaps because of it. It was as though a weight had fallen off his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe? I wouldn't be surprised, but then she hasn't said anything. Not to me, anyway."

"And obviously not to me either," I muttered, dropping my eyes down to my hands.

"She's good at keeping secrets, Rhali is," Ozzy supplied redundantly.

I nodded in reply. "True. I didn't find out she was taking Muggle summer courses until Easter in fourth year."

"That's a year earlier than I found out."

"Sorry. I should have told you 'bout that."

"No drama. I worked it out for myself eventually, didn't I?"

"Yeah, eventually. Took you long enough."

"Hey, you just said that you only found out a year before."

"Yeah, and the fact that you took twelve months longer isn't much of a credit to you, Ozzy."

Ozzy chuckled. I did too. And just like that, somehow, impossibly, the horrible situation took a turn, setting its shoulder and digging its heels into the ground to start the heavy trek back up the hill from confronting the intensity back to the easy camaraderie that Ozzy and I had always shared. The confession, the realisation, still sat upon me like a heavy burden, as though while Ozzy had been freed of its weight I had acquired it instead. But that was alright. If anything, I deserved to take something negative from the situation, even if it was solely my own guilt and understanding.

We chatted for a time, idly exchanging quiet nothings, until my stomach announced indignantly that I'd been awake for far too long without filling it. So we headed downstairs, fixed up a substantial lunch – because though Ozzy professed he'd only had breakfast himself an hour or two ago, he always ate half of mine, no matter how large the portion size – and called Rhali to invite her over. After which she came, in a flurry of huff and indignation that we'd apparently shared a morning without the grace of her company.

The rest of the day passed with remarkable ease. Far easier than it should have, given the circumstances. Given what I'd discovered. But regardless, it did. Ozzy, Rhali and I had always had an easy friendship, as capable of spending time in silence as in conversing in deep, profound exchanges. Or, as it happened, lazing about in the living room, sprawled on couches and watching crappy daytime TV.

Lily invited the Scamander twins over for dinner, which was a fairly common occurrence. She had a thing for the twins; she seemed to find them unerringly funny, even when they did absolutely nothing at all. For their part, Lorcan and Lysander seemed pretty oblivious to her fondness but grateful for the invitation nonetheless. And besides, Mum has always had a soft spot for the Scamanders; she'd apparently been close with Auntie Luna when they were in school.

They brought their friend over that night too. Unexpectedly and unannounced, of course, which was just so typically Scamander that no one was really all that surprised. His name was Alan. Or Angus. Or Geoffrey, I'm not sure which, but whatever. He was a bit of a weirdo, which was saying something when Rhali, Ozzy and I were in the same room as him for most of the evening. Not only did he seem even more out of it that the twins naturally were, but because he actually spent more time with my friends and I than with the kids his own age. We didn't really care, nor even particularly notice – and why would we when there was crappy TV to watch? – but it was still a little weird.

And I don't know, maybe there's something about me, some sign or label that I didn't realise was tacked onto my forehead, but he knew I was taking. Geoffrey – or Angus – promptly approached me as he was leaving, gave me a blissfully detached smile that bared his crooked front teeth and matched his glazed blue eyes perfectly. He handed me a little wrapped wax-paper parcel barely bigger than my thumbnail and said "Here, a couple of MAs. They're really, really good. My friend Patrick calls 'em 'Forget-Me-Nows' 'cause that's what they do. You should give 'em a go when you need 'em", and then promptly left. I stared after him bemusedly, shaking my head. Was it really that obvious that I used? Though I could generally pick others when I saw them myself – I'd known Angus was on something or other from the moment he'd stepped through the front door – but I didn't realise I was that obvious. It was a little embarrassing, actually.

Still, the sentiment was… sort of appreciated, I guess. I hadn't taken my Harproot because Ozzy and I had very deliberately moved on from triggering conversation topics as we'd left the heavy stuff in my room and I was bloody exhausted even after spending the day doing nothing. Not that I'd take the MAs, of course. I wasn't one for partaking of the strains currently making the rounds and not just because my tastes didn't run to trends of fashion. I didn't like taking anything I hadn't made myself; that was one sure way to end up lying face down in the gutter one day. So I'd flush them as soon as possible. Even if the idea of momentary forgetfulness did sound sort of appealing.

When Ozzy and Rhali left, I called Scor. It was late as he'd been out all day, but he picked up on the second ring again nonetheless. He was all cringing regret when I explained what happened that day, that I'd had to tell Ozzy and Rhali – the latter of which had appeared distinctly unsurprised by the revelation – and showed nothing but regret for Ozzy's plight.

He had, however, shocked me a little when he said, "But it was sort of obvious, now that I think about it. Ozzy fancying you."

"What?" My voice was loud in my incredulity.

"Well, I didn't have to have seen you two together to realise the fact."

"Except that you didn't realise it."

"Inconsequential," Scor replied with a sniff. "My point is, we really shouldn't be all that surprised."

I sighed into the speaker. "Yeah, whatever you say. I don't know. I feel really, really bad about it. I mean, he's my friend, Scor, and I didn't even realise."

"I know you feel guilty." Scor's voice was attempting sympathy, something that I'd come to realise he wasn't all that adept at showing. "But it's not your fault."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know that too." I did, logically, even if I didn't feel it exactly.

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

I paused, silent for a moment, until Scor urged me to speak with a questioning, "Al?" "Yeah, I got it. Thanks, Scor."

We talked only briefly longer – Scor had to get up before six the next day to go to some breakfast sitting across the city – before hanging up. I didn't feel better, exactly, but it was nice to know that Scor was there to support me in this. And to tell me what I already knew when I needed to hear it from someone else.

Crawling into my bed with an unwarranted weariness, I sunk beneath the covers with the idle hope that tomorrow would be less exhausting.


	11. A New Kind of Wonderful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! So sorry for the delay in update. I've just been lost in writing this other story and time got away with me. I will not - I won't! - drop this story, however, certainly given that I've already finished the first draft, but I just felt I needed to confess my absence.
> 
> Just as a heads up, I also sort of sheepishly apologise for the first conversation of this chapter. It is very much a product of my fangirl rearing her head and demanding inclusion, so for that... sorry.
> 
> And also, WARNING: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of sexual situations. If you don't like it, please don't read it because you WON'T like it.
> 
> Enjoy!

_~Scorpius~_

"But the real question," Rhali said solemnly, her face intense above her clasped fingers, "is which is actually more evil: the Angels or the Demons."

"Demons," Ozzy replied instantly.

"Angels. Definitely," Al quickly followed, nearly overriding him.

Ozzy snorted, tossing a piece of popcorn across the little room in a feeble display of disgruntlement. It barely made it the short distance across the rug that spread across the greater part of the Niche, soaring over Rhali's sprawled figure where she lay on her customary bed of the floor. "No way, the Demons are definitely more demonic. Pun unintended. Evil is a part of their character."

Al, stretched sideways along the couch beside me with his les dangling over the arm, picked up the popcorn from the front of his jumper and contemplated it for a moment before popping it into his mouth. I admired that he could manage as much with the Gum between his teeth yet refrain from swallowing the both of them. He turned his head from where it butted against my thigh to stare at Ozzy. "You're generalising because of preconceived conceptions. That Demons are, innately, evil, just because of what they are. And for the same reason, you're assuming that Angels are naturally good."

"I'm not assuming that," Ozzy counteracted. "I'm saying it because it's true. As a race, Angels are fighting against the invasion of Demons –"

"Who aren't actually doing anything wrong in the first place."

"What part of invasion don't you understand?!" Ozzy seemed unnecessarily frustrated by Al's reply. "They're _invading Earth_. And _killing everyone_. How is that not evil?"

Al gave an awkward little shrug into my thigh that wasn't quite visible. His response was evident anyway, however. "You're just speaking from the perspective that killing everyone is wrong."

"I'm disturbed by your viewpoint, Al," Rhali interjected, though she appeared more amused than uneasy. I could see where she was coming from; I was in a likeminded state, torn between mirth and disturbance at Al's blasé attitude towards the end of the human race. Even if the popular chronicles of _The Dark Angel's Fury_ was a work of fiction, such an attitude was surely concerning.

"No, seriously," Al replied, pushing himself up onto his elbows to turn towards the room at large more easily. "The main problem you have with the Demons is that they're invading Earth, right? Invading it and basically forcing humans out of the way to make room for them."

"Right," said Ozzy and Rhali, speaking in tandem.

"Right. But the only reason they _have_ to invade is because their own world is being gradually chipped away at by this 'side of light' as the Angels are attempting to eradicate the Demon World and in doing so basically committing genocide."

"Upon a race that shouldn't exist in the first place," Ozzy pointed out, picking distractedly through the half-empty bowl of popcorn in his lap.

"That's irrelevant, Ozzy. Just because they 'shouldn't exist in the first place' doesn't mean that they should continue their non-existence when they're _actually existing_."

"Demons are _evil_ , Al. _That's_ why they shouldn't exist."

"They're only evil because they're against humans and you're sympathetic towards humanity's plight."

"Can't argue with that logic, Ozzy," Rhali said, rolling onto her back and kicking one foot lazily into the air.

"No," Ozzy frowned, glancing up from his bowl. "I'm against them because they're wrong. They have no compassion for the welfare of an entire people and show no sympathy for their deaths."

"Hmm, I've got to say, relate though I can to the Demon's attitude towards people in general, I do have to agree with you on that one, Ozzy," Rhali muttered thoughtfully.

Al huffed, dropping his head back onto the couch and catching it on the edge of my lap instead. Neither of us made a move to shift from the situation. "You're overlooking the key fact that the Angels are bastards."

"How so?" Ozzy asked.

"Because they have absolutely no incentive to eradicate the Demons in the first place! The Demons aren't attacking or even threatening _them_ and they're making it their personal vendetta to wipe them off the face of the earth!"

"There's a reason for that," Ozzy replied, raising his eyebrows towards Al pointedly.

"No, I have to agree with Al on this one," I spoke up for the first time in what must have been about five minutes. It was hard to get a word in when they were all arguing so passionately. "The Angels seem more hell bent on simply committing acts of violence and destruction in the name of preserving humanity than actually 'doing good'."

"Quiet, you," Ozzy frowned at me. "You have no place in this intricate discussion. You've only read two of the books and that was, what, six years ago?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, but Al's given me the run down."

"That doesn't count!"

"It does count," Al countered, diving in to my rescue. "I need someone on my side to combat you two's mutual stupidity."

Rhali and Ozzy spluttered in mock indignation and the topic of _The Dark Angel's Fury_ fell into the past for a debate of Greater Import. I smiled at the exchange, simply comfortable in listening to their avid, good-natured arguing. True, I hadn't read more than the first two books in what had become one of the most popular horror series of our generation – and it really was quite gruesome, so of course my three friends loved it – but that hardly mattered when it came to having an opinion. Regardless of what Ozzy said.

It was the first night back from the Christmas Holidays and we were revelling in one another's company once more. Al told me it was their tradition of sorts to spend the first night back at school either bathing in Harproot or chewing Happy Gum. I don't know exactly why they felt the need for either the drugs or the meet; they'd seen each other every other day in the holidays, so it wasn't like there was all that much to tell.

Still, I appreciated the situation, whatever the reasoning behind its inception. I myself had not seen Rhali or Ozzy all holidays, and Al only twice; the second time was hardly more intimate than the first, when he'd actually come to visit Drisella with me. I'd figured she'd be the most forgiving with the intrusion of a stranger which, giving her credit where it was due, she was. It hadn't lasted long, however, and a request to meet for dinner with Drisella's father cut our catch up frustratingly short.

We'd all four met up on platform nine-and-three-quarters before boarding the train. It was by chance, really, that we'd even bumped into each other. Or perhaps coordinated chance, with several key players actively influencing the odds. Because though I'd spoken to Al on the phone just before leaving home, it was Ozzy that I ran into first.

It was an awkward confrontation. Very awkward. I wasn't one to reveal my discomfort in unnerving situations, but that meeting had tested my limits. We'd literally run into one another in the thick crowds choking up the platform and there was an extended and tense pause between us as we'd simply stared at one another. I knew about his secret, and he knew about my relationship with Al, and it made things very, very… awkward.

Ozzy was the one to shake himself from his silence first. "Scor. Sorry, I didn't see you there. How were your holidays?"

I met his dark gaze warily, feeling myself tense unnecessarily. What, did my body honestly think I was going to make a run for it? "Well enough. Informative. And yourself."

Nodding slowly, Ozzy's eyes darkened infinitesimally. "Yes. Informative would be a good way of putting it."

There was silence between us for a moment, and it would have been thoroughly unnerving had the buzz of the crowd around us not broken up the lull quite nicely. I was just contemplating what I could possibly say to ease the tension when Ozzy spoke up.

"I know. About… about you and Al."

"I know," I replied. "I know that you know."

Ozzy had nodded, pursing his lips and sucking a tooth. His eyes were still eerily dark, but he seemed more thoughtful now. I'd wondered for a moment if he'd simply leave it at that, leave the exchange hanging in the air like a bad, lingering smell but, thankfully, he didn't. "Just so you're aware, if you ever hurt him, ever so much as _think_ of hurting him, I'll grind you into a pulp."

I'd blinked at Ozzy, surprised even though I shouldn't have been. "Really?"

My reply wasn't condescending. I was honestly curious; mostly that Ozzy would consider himself capable of 'grinding me to a pulp'. I'd never considered the amicable Gryffindor to be a bold or particularly aggressive person and, until that moment, hadn't thought him capable of such acts of violence. Except… yes, in that moment, tall and thin and gangly as he was – he was actually just a little taller than me, even if he did lack any particular breadth – there was something about the determination in Ozzy's gaze that assured me he was very much capable of making good his threat.

He'd folded his arms across his chest as his jaw tightened noticeably. "Yeah, really. I can accept that you two are together – really, I can. Honestly, I knew nothing was ever going to happen between me and Al – but if you even _think_ about acting like an arse…"

He'd trailed off, and that had actually been more profound than any threat could have been. I'd found myself nodding slowly, respectfully. "And I wouldn't want it any other way. If I ever did hurt him, I'd gladly take anything you could dish out. Because I would surely deserve it."

Ozzy had stared at me intently for a moment longer. His eyes were hard and flat, calculating, and I'd felt like a convict before a judge, awaiting my sentence. For some reason it felt vitally important that I receive Ozzy's approval, and not only because it would be hard won. Ozzy was important to Al, and Al to me; of course I wanted to be on solid terms with his friends. With _my_ friends, I reminded myself. Because they were that too.

After a moment, Ozzy had nodded slowly and I'd felt myself able to breathe comfortably once more. He'd given a small smile and abruptly the intimidation game he'd been playing ended and the old, familiarly placid Ozzy remained in its place. "Right. Great. That's all I wanted to hear."

I would have spoken further, except in that moment Al and Rhali had appeared. The pair of them didn't call out, didn't wave excitedly at the sight of Ozzy and myself, but their presence was noticeable nonetheless and effectively quelled any further discussion on the topic at hand. As a quartet we'd picked up our trunks and boarded the train.

To be honest, it was the best trip on the Express I'd ever had. Better even than those I'd shared with my elder friends before they'd left school and certainly better than the two I'd taken earlier that year. Al, Ozzy and Rhali were just… fun. They in no way tried to be, but managed it somehow anyway.

I wondered how I'd ever missed such enjoyable people in my own year. Regretted it too; how much had I truly missed out on?

Ozzy had been as friendly as always ever since. There were times, true, when he looked a little sad. I felt bad about that, really, I did. But to be honest, there's nothing I could, nor was willing, to do about it. I wasn't going to break up with Al over it, nor even allow myself to feel overly guilty over the idea that Ozzy was so obviously pining. Just as that reporter Picket had no say in our relationship, I didn't think Ozzy should either. Not really. And Rhali… well, Rhali didn't seem to care at all. I was sure she knew about us – and not only because Al had told me she knew – but she acted exactly the same as she always did.

So when Ozzy frowned at me and scolded me for my lack of investment in _The Dark Angel's Fury_ , and when Rhali rolled her eyes as Al proceeded to stand up for my contribution and proclaim their stupidity, I didn't feel particularly perturbed. No more than I usually would have at having my opinion brushed off.

I tuned back into the conversation when I registered that it had very definitely moved on.

"But you don't know how to juggle! How would that even work?!"

Rhali and Al were clutching their bellies as they cackled with laughter, completely ignoring poor Ozzy's words and smiling indignation. I wasn't exactly sure of the segue onto circus acts, but filed the words away for later consideration: Al couldn't juggle. Noted.

Before Al and Rhali could really calm themselves, a ringing resounded throughout the room. All eyes turned towards the roof, pointlessly seeking the source of the Alarm Charm we'd set at the beginning of the night. My idea, that one. Apparently the thought had just never occurred to the rest of them in the past. It was probably why they were always caught out after curfew.

Me, being the prefect that I was, could hardly condone such behaviour. They were my friends, yes, but some things should not be shirked. And besides, ten o'clock was late enough to have spent in one another's company, wasn't it?

"What, ten already?" Rhali grumbled. "You've got to be kidding me. I'm still riding on my Happy; there'll be no sleeping for a couple hours at least."

Well. Apparently ten o'clock wasn't late enough.

Al, however, groaned and pushed himself up to sitting once more. "Come on, you. We've got a prefect in our ranks now. That means following the school rules every now and then."

"I'm fairly certain that taking drugs on school grounds is breaking at least a couple of those rules," I considered aloud. There was no real force to my accusation, though. How could there be, when I was a major participant in the act?

"Yeah, but you're doing it too," Rhali pointed out, voicing my thoughts. "So you can't get us in trouble for it or anything."

"Don't you think if I was going to dob you in I would have already done it by now?" I said with a sighed.

"You never know. It could be some elaborate conspiracy."

"Oh, and I'm sure dating Al was a part of that conspiracy," Ozzy contributed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. I gave a small smile as I turned towards the door, leading the troupe behind me. That was one thing that I truly admired about Ozzy; he accepted the situation and didn't attempt to shunt it to the shadows because it didn't agree with him. He accepted it, and lived it. No avoidance involved.

We stepped out into the corridor, each of us lighting our wands with yellow-white _Lumos_ , and I felt myself smirking at the immediate wariness the rest of them. It was a conditioned response, I knew; I'd noticed them doing as much before, as though they were keeping an eye out for anyone who could spring them in the act. Even with me at their side they still acted like there were a pair of eyes constantly affixed to each of them with scolding accusation.

At the T in the end of the hallway, we paused and turned towards one another. Rhali gave me – very distinctly me – an long, unreadable stare, quirked her lips and shrugged in a motion of decisiveness. "Alright. I'm off then."

"What, no demands for an escort tonight?" Ozzy teased. He received a whack on the shoulder for voicing his thoughts.

"Actually, I just assumed that we'd all consider it the duty of the chivalrous to walk the lady back to her common room."

"Such might be the case if we actually had a lady amongst us," Ozzy pointed out, running his eyes up and down Rhali speculatively.

"Oh, but we do," Rhali replied, slipping her arm through Ozzy's. "And that is why chivalrous me is going to be the one walking _you_ back to your common room." And she spun them in a rather graceful turn and tugged Ozzy along one arm of the corridor.

It took a few moments for Ozzy to steady himself enough to actually reply. "Are you calling me a helpless damsel in distress?"

"If anyone would be out of the four of us it would be you."

"I disagree! It's obviously Scor."

The echoes of their banter rebounded down the hallway, the reflexive wariness that had arisen upon stepping from the Niche fading from their retreating figures. Neither even bothered to glance behind them to discern whether Al and I were following or leaving ourselves, nor even to say goodnight.

"That… was weird."

Al glanced towards me at my words. "Not really. It's just their way of giving us some privacy." He gave a fond smile. "They're not the best with subtlety, but the attempt is appreciated nonetheless."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise as I glanced towards him. "That was planned?"

Al shrugged. "Maybe not planned, but we've known each other long enough to pick up on cues like that. Ozzy caught on straight away. It's why he didn't make a fuss."

Turning back towards the now empty corridor down which our friends had departed, I shook my head slowly. Well, I'll be. I hadn't seen that coming. Not from Ozzy, given I'd assumed he'd likely do his utmost to avoid promoting our relationship, and certainly not Rhali who, though she'd accepted me as her friend, still seemed to find it a personal triumph whenever she waylaid me in any matter. It was unexpectedly considerate of them and… I was oddly touched.

"Come on, then," Al broke into my thoughts, nudging my side with an elbow.

I turned my attention back towards him. "What? Where? Our common rooms are in opposite directions."

Sighing in amused exasperation, Al tilted his head up at me with a crooked smile upon his face. "Look, Scor. I've got this prefect with me who will basically enable me to wander through the halls outside curfew and I'm finding that I'd actually quite like to spend some more time with him. If that's okay with you, of course?"

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you asking me to deliberately break curfew with you?"

"Well, we haven't really actually been alone since we got together. I thought you'd appreciate the opportunity as much as I would. But if you'd rather not…" Al trailed off, turned his eyes to the side and pursed his lips. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face as he shrugged one shoulder.

"I could think of nothing I'd rather more," I replied before I even knew what I was saying. And it was certainly what I should have been saying, because nothing that brought such a smile to Al's face could be anything but entirely appropriate. I was finding that, when it came to Al, I was increasingly able to push quite a lot to the side as a secondary priority. Studies were important, yes, and networking for my future just as much, but… not right _now._ So I eagerly followed Al as he gestured down the opposite hallway with a tilt of his head, leading me to an unknown destination.

I found that, for the first time in a long time, I had absolutely no inclination to arrange my every act to assist the progression towards my future career. And that… that was a big thing for me. I'd always been focused upon my looking far forwards, to the point where my initial understanding that I didn't even particularly like the direction I felt obligated to follow faded into obscurity. Now, it was simply something I did.

But I'd spent the entire holidays working, boring and seemingly redundant as that work might be at times. An entire holiday that I could have better spent with people – or, more specifically, one person – that I truly desired to be with. It was a bit of a shock, as though being doused in cold water. An awakening; because I knew that I would follow my father into LeFay, but at the same time… no, I didn't want to be consumed by that role. Consumed as I'd considered I had to be, as many of my old friends were being.

And following Al, completely disregarding the fact that classes begun the next day, was a massive step out of my comfort zone that felt entirely exhilarating. I wasn't not sure it was only because I was spending that time with Al, though I was certain that his presence was an exceptionally big part of it. I wondered if that disregard had anything to do with the effects of the Happy Gum I'd been revelling in for the past three hours.

We wandered in relative silence throughout the dark corridors of the sleeping castle, myself directionless but Al moving with distinct purpose. I registered that we were on the seventh floor when he eventually slowed to a stop.

"Where are we?" I asked, glancing around me at the unremarkable corridor. It was empty of doors and even wall hangings except for what I could make out in the gloom as a tapestry of some wizard sitting amongst a ring of weary trolls wearing tutu's.

Al turned towards me from the blank wall opposite the tapestry. "I'm about to reveal to you one of the absolute best secrets of Hogwarts. Are you ready?"

I raised my eyebrows, half in surprise and half in amusement. "You've got a secret about the school that I don't know about?" That was saying something. As a prefect, it was my duty to know as much of the school as I could, including any hidden corridors and rooms that might harbour students skipping classes. A map was issued to each prefect at the initiation of their duties, one we were told to familiarise ourselves with before it was returned to our head teacher a week later. For privacy reasons, of course. We couldn't have every student knowing _every_ secret of the school. Apparently it was a tradition that had been added to the duties of prefects about twenty years ago.

"You're going to show me a secret?" I smiled, pushing forth the condescension that I felt at the suggestion. "I think there's little that could impress me, actually. I'm quite familiar with the ins and outs of the school. It's sort of my thing."

Al returned my stare with equal levels of condescension. "Well, then prepare to be surprised."

"How can one prepare to be surprised?" I asked rhetorically. Al ignored me. He'd turned from me once more and, in the most random display I'd witnessed in some time, closed his eyes, furrowed his brow and walked resolutely down the corridor. I watched him in bemusement as he drew away and was just taking a step to follow him when he turned and walked back the other way, eyes still closed and face fixed in concentration.

"What…?" I began, but Al waved his the hand free of his wand at me for silence and continued his pacing. I watched him in mounting confusion until, after the third trip, he stopped in front of me. "What was that all about?"

By way of explanation, Al gestured towards the blank wall beside us. Or the wall that _had_ been blank. Because it wasn't anymore, but instead boasted a dark, modest oaken door with a golden doorknob. I blinked at it in surprise before shifting my glance towards Al. He appeared, quite rightly, a little smug.

"What is that?"

"It's a secret room."

"Yes, I'd gathered as much. But what is it?" Surely I'd know of a concealed room in the seventh floor corridor and yet no memory of one was presenting itself. It was actually quite infuriating.

"It's called the Come and Go Room by the house elves because that's what it does: it only appears when you need it – or ask for it – and supplies you with what it is you want. It's also sometimes called the Room of Requirement."

The name triggered a memory and I let out a hum of understanding. Yes, the Room of Requirement. I had heard of that, although not because I was a prefect. Father had mentioned it on one occasion, stating that he'd used it numerous times during his schooling years and that by and large it flew under the radar with the teacher's floor plan. Likely because it was not always present, if what Al had said had any valid basis.

"You've heard of it?"

I nodded. "Yes, Father mentioned it several times."

"I'll bet he did," Al murmured with a nod. I frowned at him questioningly, but he only waved a hand at me, disregarding my curiosity. "Come on. Want to have a look?"

Of course I did. Al didn't even need to ask. It could have been a broom closet and I likely would have followed Al inside. Actually, dusty as a broom closet was, the thought had an appeal of its own. Al didn't wait for a reply and, stepping up to the door, jiggled the handle for a moment before stepping through the opening door. I followed right on his heels.

The interior of the Room of Requirement was… gorgeous, in a word. I liked to think I had a taste for fine home furnishings, and this one ticked all of the boxes. To my particular preferences too. All dark and light, contrasting colours, rich carpet, a wide fireplace at one end that actually had a fire crackling away on the hearth and comfortable-looking sofas that somehow still managed to appear refined despite their obvious softness. The room was illuminated by both the fire and a ring of elaborate wall candles, each beaming their soft light throughout the room. From what I could see, apart from the couches it was fairly bare, except that across the other side of the room –

Al gave a groan at my side, and glancing towards him I saw he'd dropped his head into one hand and appeared to be attempting to bury his face from view. What little I could make out of his expression through his fingers was flushed red. "I did _not_ ask for that."

"What?"

" _That_." Al lifted his head as he gestured towards the thick mattress and pristine lines of the duvet tucking each corner of the double bed across the room. It was piled high with cream pillows atop a matching quilt and looked nothing is not tempting. "I specified somewhere that we could be alone together, somewhere that you'd feel comfortable in, and in _no way_ , insinuated anything untoward."

I felt a grin threatening to spread across my face and had to bite it back because it would most likely send Al into burying his face in his hands again. He could get strangely embarrassed and withdrawn over some things, regardless that he was, in general, quite forward in an exclusive context. "I don't really see anything wrong with it."

Al heaved a frustrated sigh. "I didn't mean to suggest anything, Scor. Honestly."

"Oh, I believe you."

"It just sort of happened."

"And I am in no way complaining."

Finally catching onto what I was suggesting, Al quirked an eyebrow at me. "You're not weirded out?"

I folded my arms across my chest as I wandered across the room. With deliberate casualness, I tested the thickness of the bed's mattress before lowering myself onto it. I kicked my feet out before me and regarded Al from where he stood by the door. "Why on earth would I be 'weirded out'?"

Shaking his head, Al took a handful of hesitant steps after me. "I just thought that you might think I was being a bit too forward."

I let my smile spread this time. "Really, Al? I am most welcome to any kind of forwardness you could offer. And," I made a show of glancing around me, considering the room. I'd have to keep this Room of Requirement in mind for future reference; it really was quite nice. "I could hardly think of a better place to act as such."

Continuing in his steps, Al slowed to a stop before me. "You honestly don't mind?"

"I'd say I'm far from minding."

"Good," Al nodded curtly. The last of his embarrassment fell away, replaced by a small smile and a light in his eyes that was ever so slightly intoxicating in its simple presence. "Then you won't mind if I take advantage of the privacy we've been so graciously afforded."

And with that Al was crawling into my lap. In a display of the forwardness he'd been apologising for seconds before, he straddled my thighs, cupped my head in his hands and brought our lips together. It was a deep, soft kiss, as though we were sinking into each other, and I found my arms rising to wrap around him and draw down into me. Anything to reduce the distance between us and just let me _feel_ him.

Because _God_ did I want to. Even in such a short time, I'd never been so quickly turned on in my life. Yes, I hadn't known if I was actually gay or just curious, or if it was simply Al himself that seemed attractive to me, but whichever explanation was the truth didn't deny the fact that it was _incredibly hot_. Pressing against one another, turning our heads to deepen the kiss further, wrapping tongues in a breathy dance as our hands sought to run over one another. I couldn't get enough of it, of simply touching Al, running my hands over his back, along his thighs, creeping up his shirt. For his part, Al forsook his cradling of my head in short order, seemingly just as eager to explore me with his own hands as I was him.

There was something exceptionally frustrating about the presence of clothing. Something that no amount of pressure, of pressing against one another or rubbing for friction, could alleviate. I wasn't usually such a forward person myself when it came to physical relationships. At least, I hadn't been with Winona. Maybe it was because I'd never felt entirely comfortable with her. But with Al? It was completely different. I couldn't get enough, couldn't feel enough, and though there was an incredibly annoying part of me cautioning in the back of my mind that things were escalating exceptionally fast, the greater part was revelling in the moment.

Apparently Al was of a similar mindset, for with what appeared to be a very real struggle he drew himself away from me. Though his hands still held me, one tangled at the hem of my shirt and another clasped around the back of my neck, he very deliberately resisted the kiss I sought to chase him with.

With hooded eyes half hidden behind his fringe and gasping voice he spoke. "Um… maybe we should…"

"Please don't," I replied, just as breathlessly.

"Scor, please don't have to feel like you have to."

"Have to?" My mind was sluggish and heavy, thickly swaddled in the scent, the sight, the feel of Al. Nothing else could possibly be more important in that moment, not even words.

"I mean, it's really… it's really alright if you'd rather take it slow."

Those words drew me up short for a moment. I blinked the confusion from my foggy mind, peering up to Al's heavy, intent gaze. It didn't help that I was distracted along the way by his lips, their curving cupid's bow flushed red and intensely attractive in that moment. "Do you want to take it slower?"

With a scoff, Al rolled his eyes. "Do I really look like I want to?"

I felt a smile tug at my lips. "Do I?"

A slow, mirroring smile spread across Al's face in return. It caught, however, and his became thoughtful. Almost wary. "You've never been with a bloke before, right?"

I pursed my lips, shifting slightly beneath Al's weight. My arousal, warm and uncomfortable beneath the pressure he afforded in my lap, was intensely distracting. "Is that a problem?"

"Well, there's actually a bit that's quite different between girls and guys."

"I know that." Oh Merlin how I knew that. I very much knew that, and I was revelling in every instant of heightened understanding of such knowledge. "I read about it."

Al snorted, the sound oddly erotic given our positioning and his rumpled appearance. My hands tightened unconsciously where they locked around his waist. "Of course. Trust you to do your homework."

"Naturally."

"When did you even get the time for that?"

"Don't ask irrelevant questions. I made the time." A sleepless night or two over the holidays, because really, after reading some of that which was writ across the internet – and more, watching it – made sleep next to impossible. If anything could encourage my belief in my diverted sexuality it was the surplus of Muggle websites on the subject. And the pictures. So, _so_ many pictures.

"And you really think you're okay with it?" Al's expression was dubious, his tone faintly disbelieving.

"With what?"

"With… with…" Al struggled for a moment, fingers rising from my neck to wave redundantly in the air. "With all of it. I mean, I'm not saying we have to go the whole way tonight or anything –"

"You're not?" I wasn't going to pretend that the thought didn't disappoint me. Yes, we were moving fast, but dammit, it still felt too slow!

Al raised an eyebrow at me. "Do you want to?"

"You have no idea."

The smile in reply denied my words. "Oh, I think I might."

"Then… if you want to…?"

Al dropped a kiss onto my lips, soft and chaste at first but quickly becoming impassioned as I leant into it, deepening our contact. When we broke away, I couldn't keep the faint moan from escaping my lips. Al's puffs of breath against my skin were like caresses as he spoke. "I really, really want to."

I drew in for another quick kiss. "Then please… let me…" And I paused, caught on a thought. "Wait, how did you want to do it?"

Al cocked his head questioningly. His eyes were trained on my own lips, however, and the soft movements of his hands as they stroked along my back suggested his thoughts were definitely elsewhere. "I thought you said you knew how."

"I mean which… way. What would you prefer? I mean," I struggled to get the words out. I knew exactly what I _should_ be saying, but actually referring to something as blatant as positioning aloud for the first time was unreasonably embarrassing. "Do you usually…?"

Al's expression was far too innocent, and I knew even before he spoke that he knew exactly of what I was referring to. "Are we a little bashful, Scor?"

"Oh, do shut up."

"Tut, tut, I'm merely confirming." He dropped a peck on my cheek that went a long way in mollifying my disgruntled pride. "You mean do I prefer to top or bottom?" At my nod, Al leant back slightly in my lap. Which was both not okay because it meant he drew away from me and very, _very_ appreciated because the pressure on the tightness in my trousers was just… slightly… "I'm good for either, really, though I do tend to bottom more often than not."

"Why is that?" I asked, digging my fingers into the tops of Al's jeans to provide some grounding to my distracted thoughts.

Al shrugged. It was almost annoying how, despite the flush to his cheeks and the fiddling of his fingers, he appeared entirely comfortable in staving off any continuation of passionate touches. "Because I want to. And because Ozzy usually preferred to top, and he wasn't really all that keen on using Maghdarg's Brew – which is fair enough because it does take some getting used to – so –"

"Maghdarg's Brew?" The mention of Ozzy drew a grumble of possessiveness from me that caused me to unconsciously tighten my hold around Al's waist. Al didn't even seem to notice that he'd said anything that could be construed as triggering – and maybe he honestly didn't think of it that way; both he and Ozzy had been remarkably okay with everything since our initial and unintentionally climatic announcement – but I couldn't quite help myself from tugging Al slightly more firmly onto my lap. If that was even possible which, really, it wasn't.

Al gave me a crooked smile. "Have you been doing most of your homework on Muggle websites, by any chance?"

"Of course," I sighed, exasperated. "Have you any idea how much more content is available to Muggles than solely to wizards?"

"Actually, I do," Al replied. "And I'm not judging or anything. Only that Muggle's don't really have an equivalent, so it would make sense. And it is sort of a lifesaver when it comes to sex between blokes."

"What does it do?" I asked, very pointedly drawing myself away from fixating upon the very mention of sex.

"Basically reduces the need for extensive preparation on whoever's bottoming," Al informed me with an almost lecturing tone. I'd be lying if I said it didn't turn me on just that little bit more. "It forms a link between arousal and muscle relaxation and… maybe that's a discussion for another time. Might sort of kill the mood a little."

It didn't. It really didn't. I doubted there was anything that could possibly kill the mood at that moment. Even casual conversation hadn't served to ease my arousal one bit. "That sounds awfully convenient."

"Yeah, kind of is," Al grinned, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

"And you… you've…?"

"Yeah," Al supplied for my complete lack of eloquence. "It only needs taking once a month, so I'm all good to go."

 _Good to go…_ "Then, if you're alright with it?"

"Trust me, Scor," Al admonished. "If I wasn't you would certainly know about it." And to demonstrate just how alright with it he was, Al pressed himself back up against me, cupped my head in his hands once more, and drew our lips together. I fell prey to the sensations letting my body simply respond; I didn't seem to have enough hands to grasp everything I wanted to touch.

I personally would have settled for just charming the clothes off Al's back. Disintegrating them, if I must. Anything to get closer to him, to feel more of that smooth, warm skin that shivered slightly beneath my fingertips. The act of removing clothes – I was _so_ glad we'd had a chance to change from our uniforms before meeting up that night because I was certain that buttons would have popped flying otherwise – happened remarkably quickly but also far too arduously. Each moment that we broke away from joined lips was a regret, however necessary it was to tug jumpers and shirts over our heads. Each shift in our seats was a trial but required to kick off shoes and dislodge.

But it was definitely worth it.

Al's warmth as he sat atop me was almost burning with the absence of layers of clothing. I felt myself nearly gasp at each movement, each slither of skin across skin, each puff of breath upon my cheek as Al planted sucking kisses upon my jaw, my neck, just beneath my ear. And most intensely, the heat pooling between my legs, rushing to my groin, was definitely _not_ abated by the weight of Al in my lap. My arousal was aching yet tender, already straining with the desire for release. It would have been embarrassing except that Al's own arousal was pressing against my stomach, hard and throbbing. I would never have thought it would be such a turn on, to see another bloke in such a state, but Merlin…

With my head buried in Al's shoulder, my hips straining to buck beneath him, _anything_ to achieve some sort of relief from the increasing, throbbing ache, it took me a moment to realise Al had spoken.

It was a struggle to pull my lips from the soft skin of his shoulder. "W… what?"

Al, his head turned towards me, met my gaze. I was captivated for a moment; the flush of his cheeks, the wetness of his lips, the lust-blown darkness of his eyes was absolutely intoxicating. He seemed just as distracted by staring at me but shook his head a moment later and repeated himself. "I… I mean, you definitely had the protection charms put on in fifth year, right? And… and you don't happen to have any lube or anything, do you?"

I froze, numbed for a second. Did I…? "God dammit, no. I don't. I mean I did, but I haven't." I stumbled through my reply, cursing. Of all the bloody practicalities…

Al, however, was shaking his head again distractedly. "'S okay. I didn't think you would. It would be kind of weird if you did, actually, you know, seeing as you didn't even know I was kind of thinking about this all night." He laughed in more of a gasp than actual laughter. "No drama, so long as we're all 'playing it safe' and everything. And for… I… I know a spell and all, it's just that the actual stuff it sometimes better."

Before I could ask what that meant – I couldn't say I was an expert on products tailored for sexual purposes – Al had clambered off my lap and fell onto his knees on the floor beside his trousers. I couldn't help the groan that slipped through my lips at his abrupt absence, tossing my head backwards in frustration; the easing of pressure was not appreciated in the slightest and only made the ache in my groin strain for release all the more. I grabbed myself, squeezing tightly, struggling to hold fast against the urge to jerk off to a quick rush of pleasure.

Al had fumbled for his wand, extricated it from his pocket and cast an inaudible charm that pooled a thick, translucent liquid into his palm. He discarded the wand a moment later, dropping it onto the pile of clothes on the floor, and immediately stepped back before me, slipping astride me with knees either side of my legs with such practical determination that it was all I could do not to fall backwards beneath him. My arm trembled as it held me up in a sitting position and I watched him with hungry, desperate eyes. With a nudge of his hand, Al urged me to release the tight hold I had upon myself and, with a delicate efficiency that made me groan, wrapped his slickened hand around my length.

I gasped. It was absolutely _too_ good. The only thing I could possibly liken the feel of Al's fingers to was his mouth and… and I shouldn't think about that because I did _not_ want it end it so soon. "Al –"

"Hold on a moment," Al whispered hoarsely, and an instant later those fingers of God unwrapped from my shaft. I moaned at their loss, dragging my heavy eyes down towards Al once more. He was reaching behind him, shifting and… I wasn't sure, could hardly make out through the heat blurring my eyes. My attempts to discern what he was doing were foiled a moment later, however, when, adjusting himself on his knees, Al raised himself onto his knees, edged forwards and positioning himself with a hand upon me once more, slowly lowered himself down.

And that… that feeling was indescribable. Incomparable. It was completely different to being with a girl, a different feeling entirely. And there was absolutely nothing I could think of to complain about that fact. My whole being centred around the point of our connection, that ball of tightness and pleasure that throbbed around my length. Every other concern in the world faded to insignificance.

I moved without direct intention. Half curled beneath the weight of Al on top of me, my hands rose and grasped his thighs, holding him firmly and drawing him further onto me as he sunk to his own weight. My hips writhed and rocked awkwardly, thrusting of their own accord in an attempt to drive deeper, further into him. And with each thrust Al released a gasp that went straight to my arousal, only spurring it on further.

He was more slender than a girl, slim in an entirely different way. His thighs were a different shape and his hips were narrower. His chest was flat and smooth, and where his hands rested, stroking in a raking caress up my own chest to fasten onto my shoulders, his fingers were longer, hands larger. As we rocked in jarring synchrony, gasping in mutual breaths of arousal with my eyes fastened upon him, I knew I'd never seen anything more absolutely gorgeous in my life.

I knew I wouldn't last long. I could barely hold onto myself as it was. With each upwards thrust, Al rolled his hips downwards to meet me, pressing me as deeply into him as possible. The slide of skin on skin, the clenching of muscle, was nearly unbearable. It didn't take long for me to throw restraint to the wind and fall to thrusting and bucking in earnest, chasing that mounting pleasure like a starving man would a loaf of bread. My groans filled the air, intertwining with Al's in a moaning melody. Though my eyes clenched shut of their own accord I could still see the motions of his hips, the clench of the muscles visible in his thighs, the flush of his cheeks as his face leant towards my own bare inches away.

All of a sudden, Al gave a hoarse cry and I felt warm wetness spill across my stomach. At the same time the pressure around my length intensified breathtakingly and in a shout of my own I found myself coming, thick and fast and hard. It was the headiest feeling of pleasure, sending sparks dancing across the inside of my closed eyelids. My body moved of its own accord, bucking in haphazard thrusts to ride out the waves of sensation. It was all I could do to grasp onto Al rather than fall backwards onto the bed.

When it finally eased enough for me to breath, to open my eyes without fear of them popping from my head, I peered up at Al, into his face a bare handbreadth from my own. He was panting, his chest rising and falling heavily, one hand lifted to push sweat-sprinkled bangs from his eyes. If I hadn't just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life, the image of his slumping figure in my lap, his arms draped around loosely over my shoulders, would have definitely sent me to the edge.

Drawing my hands from his thighs up his spine, I wrapped my own arms around him in a tight embrace. It was awkward, given our positions, given the persisting point of our connection that I desperately wished to maintain. But Al folded against me easily enough, pants dying as he wrapped his own arms back around me. I rested my head against the side of his as I felt him shift, fidgeting slightly and unbending his legs to curl them around my back.

"Good?"

Gasping a short laugh, I dropped my mouth down to his shoulder and kissed the damp skin in a smattering of pressed lips. "Do you even have to ask?"

Al laughed in reply, which was an experience of sensations in itself. "Couldn't help myself."

Drawing away from my kissing, I shifted so that I could meet Al's eyes. He looked dreamy, tired and altogether not entirely awake anymore. I couldn't blame him; I wasn't feeling much more with it myself. "You never have to ask. But really. Good?" I snorted, shaking my head. "That's the understatement of the year."

A slow, dopey smile spread across Al's face and he dropped his forehead onto my shoulder. "Aw, and us not even out of January yet. I'm flattered."

I could have said something sarcastic or witty to that. I didn't. Because I really didn't feel the need to. Because it was perfectly comfortable and perfectly acceptable to simply sit in the cradle of Al's arms and legs and bathe in the blessed afterglow like two love-struck teenagers.

Which, I liked to think, we sort of were.

In love… Merlin, I had surely begun to fall.


	12. Let Me Help You, Dammit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains descriptions of a sexual nature. If you don't like it... I don't know quite how you managed to get up to this chapter in the first place, but anyway, you probably won't like it. Just a heads up :)

_~Albus~_

I was rapidly reaching the conclusion that waking up to a memory that brought a smile to the face was the best way to do so. And Friday morning, a week into the new term, was no different. It was stupid, and pathetic, and a little bit horrifying, but I found that, yes, in spite of all of that, I did quite enjoy waking up to memories of Scor.

Particularly of fucking Scor. Yes, that usually led to a rather pleasant awakening in and of itself.

It had only been a week since we'd first slept together. One single week, and yet it felt like so much longer than that. As though I'd been with Scor for _so much longer_. With my eyes closed, lying on the quilted blankets of my bed, I could paint a perfect picture of Scor on the inside of my eyelids; his sharp features, his straight, patrician nose and slightly raised eyebrows, platinum blonde curls and the faint quirk of a derogatory smile playing across his lips. I had rapidly come to the conclusion that, had I to describe my ideal of a physical man – and more importantly, one with which I was attracted to – it would certainly take the form of Scor. How did no one else realise he was drop-dead gorgeous? Or did they realise and just somehow manage not to drool over him? Maybe the reality was just hidden beneath the cold, humourless exterior that basically forbade the initiation of friendship.

But I loved it all, even that studiousness that gave way to seeming disregard sometimes. Because it wasn't really cold; it was just Scor. And I loved that about him too. Even more than that, I loved the little features that bubbled half-hidden beneath the surface. A wickedly sarcastic sense of humour, a deep thoughtfulness that drove mirth completely from his face, a condescending exasperation for anyone with the foolishness to display their idiotic ignorance of common knowledge before him. All of it. I loved it.

And I was very aware of the fact that I was probably bathing in the warm glow of infatuation and that it would just as probably be pretty short lived. I've heard of the honeymoon period, after which the endorphins die down in intensity and quite often the relationship with it. But who cared? I liked to think that Scor and I would surpass that expectation of conclusiveness. And besides, if it was to happen it would be an eventuality. Somewhere in the far-distant future. For now I woke up and smiled, and that was something close to a miracle itself. Smiling had once been a bit of a trial for me, what with my wonderful gift of childhood anxiety and all that.

Truthfully, I hadn't expected all that much to change. Between me and Scor? Yeah, the physical side was a change. A pretty big change actually, considering how frequently we revisited that intimacy after that. Looking at the upstanding figure of Scor from afar, I doubt anyone would pick that he was quite so enthusiastic for sex. I personally would have considered it something of an impossibility for him to even squeeze time for recreational pleasure seeking into his schedule; Scor took _way_ too many N.E.W.T subjects, and from what I'd been able to deduce managed as much by living on about five hours of sleep a night.

I couldn't manage that. Mum always used to say I slept so much because I'd never slept very deeply. Give me at least a solid eight or I'm a zombie the next day.

Not Scor. No, somehow Scor managed to find time for _us_ on top of everything else. That in itself was surprising and vastly pleasing. I'd reconciled myself to the fact that we'd probably be keeping it pretty low key for our seventh year, putting a plug in further developments and dabblings into the unknown. It was part of the reason I'd wanted us to just try something on the night before school resumed; I felt like if we didn't _then_ , it wouldn't have happened. After all, I _was_ dedicated to my studies. Sometimes. At least with the ones that counted. Scor? He was on a whole new level. Nerd was never a more appropriate label; I was fairly certain he recited spells in his sleep and became ambidextrous purely so that he could write two different essays simultaneously.

Once more, I underestimated my new boyfriend – and hell did it sound good to call him that.

He mustn't sleep. That's all I could presume; not a wink of sleep, at least in our first week back at school. Because every night we found ourselves back in the Room of Requirement and reliving and exploring the glory that had been the consummation of our relationship. Experimenting is one word that could be used for it. Falling helplessly into the moment, unable to claw ourselves free until physically exhausted and bathing in the sheer bliss of the glowing aftermath was another. Scor was… really into it. I had no idea he'd have such a profound inclination, such a prominent… _sex drive_ , for want of a better description. And I personally couldn't be happier for that little discovery.

I couldn't keep my hands off him, not when we were alone in that room. I couldn't help but want to touch him, to unveil every inch of his achromatic skin, so pale it was nearly translucent. There was so much beneath the heavy school robes that was hidden from the world, so much that everyone was missing out on; Scor was well-built if not quite broad, but such a simplistic description was nothing compared to the reality. Long limbs perfectly matched his long, elegant fingers, the faint shadowing and firmness of the muscles in his arms, his chest and torso, the tightness of his thighs. I would hardly classify quidditch as being a physically demanding sport, but I was almost considering reassessing my opinion after taking a look at Scor. Or maybe that was just because he was a Beater.

It was a blessing to be given the opportunity to simply explore him for myself. A blessing not solely for me, apparently; Scor seemed just as intrigued in his own exploration as I was, and though I would hardly consider myself quite up to the same standard as he, it was certainly gratifying to be the focus of such an enraptured gaze.

Infatuation. It had to be. But whatever, I'd enjoy it while it lasted.

I supposed I could have expected that. At least a little bit, somewhere in my mind I surely must have considered the possibility that after the first time we had sex that it would become… um… demandingly recurring. I guess I also should have expected to find it increasingly difficult not to stare at Scor during class, not to let my mind wander to subjects _very_ far removed from course material, and to be the victim of many jabbed elbows from Rhali when she noticed I'd drifted off, or the fondly exasperated sighs of Ozzy as he rolled his eyes at my following blushes. God bless Ozzy, he was actually happy for me even with all things considered.

I could even have expected Scor to be a little bit the same, even if not to the degree I was. And, surprisingly, he was. That first week back at school certainly saw Scor less obsessively fixated on his studies that he had been the previous term. He actually lifted his head from his parchment a couple of times in our Transfiguration theory lesson to glance at me briefly. It was almost as though the world had been tipped on its axis.

What I hadn't anticipated was the degree to which Scor would consider our relationship to shape everyday life.

The day after we'd had sex for the first time, I struggled to pull myself from the clinging quilt covers of my bed. We'd parted ways in the wee hours of the morning with the thought that our absence from the dormitories would not go unnoticed. It had been regretful, to say the least, and I'd admit that it did take quite some time to actually part for the exchange of kisses and obvious reluctance on both our parts. Pathetic, yes, but it was that memory as much as the sex that drew a smile onto my face the moment I woke up. A smile that persisted through my wavering descent into zombie drowsiness – I'd only gotten about three hours sleep, so my first day back was shaping up to be a trial itself.

Hauling myself from my bed at the third repetition of my bellowing alarm clock – I intended to peg it at James' head for gifting it to me the past Christmas next time I saw him – I fumbled my way into my school uniform. The tie was a lost cause in the face of my sleep-lax fingers, so I forwent it entirely. Glancing around the room, I noticed that two of my fellow housemates had retreated to breakfast already, with the third – Xander, unsurprisingly – still abed. I knew for a fact he had double Charms with me first up, so there was no way he should still be asleep at – I glanced towards my alarm clock – eight-sixteen.

Rubbing the grit from my eyes and struggling to breath through an unending yawn, I wobbled over to his bed. We had a system, us Hufflepuffs: should anyone still be asleep after eight-fifteen, it was the duty of the last person in the dormitory to haul that sleeper out of bed. Unfortunately for me, the other two traitors had already fled the room. I knew they'd purposely left before our cut-off time; their scurrying retreat had been my primary incentive for getting out of bed in the first place.

"Xander," I called into his ear, leaning across the bed to reach his half-buried head. "Oi, Xander. You gotta get up, mate, or you'll be late for class."

There was no reply, so I prodded him with a finger. "Xander. Hey. Get your arse out of bed."

It was probably the prodding that did it more than my words. The cocoon grumbled something that sounded like, "oof arma goad," and wriggled further beneath his blankets.

I sighed, rubbed my eyes once more with the heel of a palm, and with little ceremony reached across the bed and smacked the crown of my housemates head. Only a tuft of hair remained visible. "Third time, Xander. I've done my duty, now it's up to you. Get up now, or you'll be late."

Three's the charm. After three attempts, I was no longer obligated to chivvy him from bed. He knew it too, the bastard, because a moment later, with the sound of a mountain troll clambering from its midday siesta. Slipping into my shoes and fumbling for my wand to urge my laces to tie themselves up, I glanced over my shoulder to see him heave himself to sitting. He looked like a sunflower with his blonde hair sticking up all haphazardly around his head. Awake, though. At least I thought he was.

"Morning, lovely," Caesar chirped from my bedside. He was proudly presiding over the room from atop his cage and gave me a wolf whistle as I scratched at the back of his neck before chittering idly.

"Good morning to you too," I replied. "Want some breakfast?" Flitwick didn't mind if the parrot came to class with me, which was good because I doubted I'd have the time to drop him back to the dormitories after passing through the Great Hall. I suspected the little Charms professor actually quite liked his antics at times. A good thing, too, because Caesar had decided that yes, he was in fact coming, and fluttered in a pathetic attempt at flight to my shoulder.

"Can you grab me some toast?" Xander asked as I passed him towards the exit of the room. Or at least I think he said that. "Campbell garb knee tost," was what it sounded like but I was practiced at making deductions from such mumbles.

"Yeah, sure," I replied. Because there was no way he'd make it to breakfast on time and I wasn't that cold-hearted. Or at least not today. My zombie-self had actually receding slightly, remarkably, in the memory and warm glow of the previous night with Scor. I was actually looking forward to the day, to seeing him especially, even if it would mostly be from across the Hall or as a silent seating partner. There was almost… yes, I thought there might have been something approaching a spring in my step as I exited the Hufflepuff common room. A smile was definitely inching its way across my face.

What do you know, miracles did happen.

The Great Hall was pretty packed by the time I entered, most people awake and mobile for at least half an hour and merely awaiting the beginning of class. I fell into one of the few spare seats at my house table. Caesar was grumbling his satisfaction at my shoulder, taking the slice of apple I snagged and offered him and crunching with his customary messiness. I settled to picking at my own bowl of fruit and yoghurt; it was vegan, I knew for a fact, as years of experience had taught me. It was discernible from the simple look of it, if not the fact that everyone else steered well clear from it. Bless those little house elves, though, for catering to my picky needs.

I'd made my way halfway through my bowl when I found myself quite abruptly and unexpectedly in the company of a fellow breakfaster. Pausing with my spoon half lifted to my mouth, I felt my jaw sag open for an entirely different reason.

Okay, so I was a loner. Everyone knew it, completely disregarding my friendship with Ozzy and Rhali. No one even really spared me a second glance when I sat down at the table for breakfast, except for maybe Julianne from my year who fluttered her fingers in a wave. That could have been just an attempt at flirting with Dillon at my side, though. I wasn't entirely not sure.

So yes, my surprise was already sparked at the notion of _any_ one sitting next to me. I was usually the one that sat next to whomever, and it was always a matter of practicality; I had to sit _some_ where. I was rendered speechless and frozen when that person wasn't even from Hufflepuff and casually picked up an apple to bite with more elegance than should be possible when partaking of such a fruit.

"What… are you doing?" It was at least a solid minute of staring before I managed to force my words out, before I managed to work my jaw into pushing words from my tongue. The entire time Scor simply stared back at me, munching on his apple with a small smirk on his lips. No greeting from him, of course. He seemed to be quite enjoying my silent stupor.

"What do you mean by that?" Scor replied with false innocence. For it was very definitely false. I wasn't the only one staring at him in surprise. The Hufflepuffs around me similarly wore expression of varying degrees of bemusement, evident from raised eyebrows to rapid blinking to murmured words of confusion exchanged to neighbours. The fact that Scorpius Malfoy the Ravenclaw Prefect was sitting at the Hufflepuff table wasn't particularly noteworthy; I knew for a fact that Lily was now spending most every meal at the Ravenclaw table in her pursuit of sixth year Leon McGrath, and dotted across the room were various examples of people doing exactly the same. It was the fact that Scorpius Malfoy was sitting next to Albus Potter that was striking up the incredulity.

The gossip of the papers from weeks before was a thing of the past. Scor and I had barely had the chance to see one another over the holidays, so there was hardly fodder for the media from eyewitness accounts, let alone photographs. That didn't mean that people didn't still _know_ about our accidentally public kiss. There'd been more than a few suspicious glances directed both our ways the night before by the scant few people we'd encountered from the station to the castle. Of course there had been; Scorpius was the son of the world-renowned LeFay Connected and the heir intended, and I the son of Harry Potter who, despite being the reputable Director of the Auror Department in the DMLE, was still most recognised for _saving the bloody world_. We'd done nothing particularly ourselves, but the very nature of our familial connections ensured that our relationship would be noted and fixated upon by the masses.

I hesitated to call my fellow students 'masses'. I'd like to think that, as the up-and-coming generation of new wizards and witches, we were all above the media-driven exploits of our elders. Apparently bad habits rubbed off, though; my shoulders were hunching under their sidelong and often direct stares before I even realised what I was doing.

I glanced at Scor, keeping my voice low. "I mean, why are you sitting next to me?"

Scor paused mid-bite and arched an eyebrow. "Am I not allowed to sit next to my boyfriend?"

My spoon clattered into my plate with an unfortunate splutter of yoghurt. Caesar chortled on my shoulder as though he was genuinely amused as I blinked rapidly and wiped a streak of the stuff off my cheek. "You… you shouldn't just –"

"Call you my boyfriend?"

I was glad I wasn't holding my spoon anymore because I would have dropped it again. Boyfriend. Yeah, he was my boyfriend. I was quite satisfied with the fact, actually. But saying it loud enough to be heard? And it was heard. Very definitely from the buzz of whispers that sprung around us.

I didn't like whispers. More than that, I hated the speculations, the questions. As though the whisperers were actually wondering at the validity of Scor's words despite them being _Scor's_ words about _Scor._

"…did he just say…?"

"I think he said…?"

"…so it's true that…?"

I dropped my gaze down to my bowl. "Yeah, I guess. It's not… it's not a bad thing or anything, but…"

Scor was silent for a moment. I couldn't raise my eyes to meet his, but I feared the worst. Was he upset? Did I hurt him by not wanting everyone to know, foolish and impossible as the idea might seem? I just didn't want the world to know about my personal business.

No, more than that. I didn't want the world to _speculate_ about my personal business. Because, though I strove to keep my secrets secret, it was often a counterproductive pursuit; covert activities simply manifested gossip like shit drew flies.

"Does it bother you?"

I finally managed to glance up at Scor's face. Nervously, because I wasn't sure what I would see, and the thought of seeing him hurt… well, that hurt _me_. But Scor didn't appear fazed in the slightest. If anything, it was mere curiosity, thoughtfulness, that spread across his face.

I pursed my lips. "You calling me your boyfriend?" I shook my head as Scor nodded his affirmative. "No, that doesn't bother me so much as… as… I don't like everyone talking about it."

"You mean the speculation?"

It was as though Scor had peeked into my mind and seen my thoughts exactly. "Yeah," I muttered, picking idly at my fingernails. It was a stupid tick, one that I tended to resort to when I was uncomfortable. Or shitting myself from nervousness.

"So if they actually knew we were dating for certain then it wouldn't be so much of a problem?"

I glanced sidelong at Scor again, at his thin, slightly raised eyebrows and that persisting curiosity. He was hinting at something and I didn't quite know what yet. "I suppose."

"It would be better just to clear things up?"

Oh. That's what he was getting at. The thought caused my stomach to take a turn. "Um… that would depend on how you went about 'clearing things up'."

Scor nodded his head, clicking his tongue a couple of times thoughtfully. I peered at him warily, knowing his silence was far from meaning that we'd reached the end of the conversation. My suspicions were confirmed a moment later when he bodily turned to face me.

"Then forgive me for this. I know you don't like PDAs or giving any sort of performance, but it might just be better this way." And without another word, he reached towards me, wrapped a hand around the back of my head, and brought our lips together. It was a brief, chaste kiss, barely more than an exaggerated peck, but it was very definitely a kiss.

I was frozen, even when Scor pulled away a moment later. He gave his customary reserved smile, as though I weren't currently embodying a statue's immobility, and when he spoke it was with deceptive loudness. It seemed to ring across the muted chatter of the hall. "Then, we'll just let everyone know for certain that you're my boyfriend. And I'll be sitting next to you at every mealtime. That's what boyfriends do, right?"

The nod I managed to give was barely a jerk of my chin. I was not one for openly displaying my affection; in private, certainly, but in front of everyone? No way. Definitely no way. There was a reason I lived as a shadow in the halls of Hogwarts.

I had come to realise, though, that Scor was quite comfortable with expressing his thoughts and intentions when he so wished. Most commonly that took the form of his opinions in class, but it wasn't too much of a stretch to presume that this expressiveness was present in his relationships too. I didn't know if he'd done so before – he said he'd dated Winona Winfrey for a while a couple of years back, but I couldn't for the life of me put the two of them together in my mind, despite knowing at the time that it was happening – but I could definitely see Scor as being the sort of person to hold his girlfriend's or boyfriend's hand if he wanted to and dammit, he'd sure as hell look justified in doing so. No one would think to question it.

Except me.

I didn't finish my breakfast. It was a struggle not to jump to my feet and flee the Great Hall. I kept my gaze fastened on my bowl, because if I didn't I would be glaring at Scor, or my housemates, or everyone else in the vicinity who thought they had the right to be talking about me, Scor, and our business. Well, glare or start hyperventilating like an idiot. Either one.

Scor evidently saw my dilemma. He took remained at the table long enough to for it to seem as though his standing were not a product of the prior situation, deliberately took one more bite of apple and rose to his feet. I glanced at him sideways as he paused beside me, tilting his head in question. "Coming?"

I couldn't have scrambled to my feet faster if I'd tried, and it was actually more me than Scor that led us from the Hall. I'd like to think it was my imagination that the conversations rose in intensity as soon as we stepped from the room, but I thought it was just wishful thinking. I didn't pause to ascertain the reality of the situation, however. Without pausing to ensure that Scor was still with me, I set off for our Charms class.

We'd barely passed down a single corridor when Scor spoke up. Of course he did; Scor wasn't one to leave something hanging when he'd made his mind up about something. Avoid the situation? Sure, he'd demonstrated his skills in that regard quite nicely. But never when he'd made his mind up. That just wasn't Scor.

"You're angry with me."

I stumbled to a stop. Taking a measured breath I turned slowly to face him. Scor's face was still thoughtful, but there was a sad cast to it now that tugged at my heartstrings. Angry? No, I wasn't angry _at_ him. On the come down from near descent into a panic attack, sure, but not angry. I sighed. "No, I'm not angry with you."

"You'd have a right to be," Scor replied with a shrug. "I know you don't like drawing attention to yourself. I just figured it was better to cast a quick _Episkey_ then let the rumours grow in crooked."

I pursed my lips once more. Damn him and his repentance. It got the better of me. It actually served to calm me down a fair bit, too. I didn't feel the need to tug at my hair nervously and the urge to pick my fingernails off had substantially dwindled. "I know. You're right. I just –"

"Hate the attention?"

I snorted. "Hate is a bit of an understatement. But I'm not sure if you'd really, you know, understand that."

"Why not?" Scor frowned. There was a touch of indignation to the expression, but he was doing a good job of concealing it.

Shrugging, I raised a hand to scratch at Caesar's head. Anything to fiddle with in my awkwardness. "Just that I figure you're sort of comfortable with the attention." I paused, letting my eyes drift towards Scor. "Aren't you?"

Scor paused only a moment before nodding, ceding. "I don't know if 'comfortable' is the right way of putting it, but it doesn't bother me so much. Not really. Not as much as it does you, I don't think."

"Yeah, that's what I figured."

"Sorry about that."

I wasn't feeling even the slightest bit angry anymore. A little disgruntled, yes, but Scor had his intentions in the right place. "You don't need to apologise. Like a Band-Aid, right?"

"An _Episkey_ ," Scor corrected.

"I believe Muggles coined the term before wizards assimilated and adapted it."

" _Episkey_ charms have been around longer than Band-Aids."

"Get off your pompous high horse, Scor, and admit defeat." I kept my tone flat and bored, but couldn't help a smile cracking onto my lips. Scor replied in kind, and an instant later it was almost as though the incident in the Great Hall hadn't happened. Almost.

"I promise I won't do it again."

"What, kiss me?"

"Yes."

I frowned in mock sternness. "I bloody well hope you're lying. I'm more than prepared to dump my boyfriend if he's not even going to kiss me."

It was Scor's turn to snort. He rolled his eyes, smirking. "I meant in public."

"I knew exactly what you meant," I replied, my grin cracking through an instant later.

"Of course you did. And believe me, there is absolutely no way that I would be able to prevent myself from kissing you in private."

"Is that so?" I murmured coyly. I folded my arms across my chest as Scor took a step towards me, lifting my chin slightly, a little petulantly.

Scor was smiling now too, though his lips spoke a different story entirely. "Very so." There was a hungry glint to his eyes. "After last night, I think what _you're_ asking is the greater impossibility."

"What exactly do you mean by that?" I wasn't an idiot. I knew what he was suggesting. Still, it was fun to pretend.

"I mean," Scor's voice was low, had acquired a huskiness with remarkable speed. "That it will certainly be a struggle to keep from kissing you in public more than anything else." And, with a glance around us at the empty corridor, Scor made good his intentions and wrapped himself around me in a kissing embrace.

I didn't mind. I didn't mind in the least, now that we were alone. I wasn't bothered by Caesar's indignant grumblings on my shoulder, and I was hardly even embarrassed when we ended up sneaking into Charms class to the sound of old Flitwick's exasperated sigh. I found my high to be enduring for most of the rest of the day in fact; that I'd entirely forgotten Xander's toast that morning and was subjected to his puppy-dog eyes until lunchtime, or that Rhali seemed unable to withhold her smirks as Scor and I fell into adjacent seats didn't faze me in the slightest. My good humour lasted up to and past the conclusion of the day, and was rekindled with a fiery spark when the two of us found ourselves drawn like a magnet towards the Room of Requirement that night.

If only the good times could last. But that would be just too perfect, wouldn't it?

* * *

The first calamity to fall was the reality of our studies. Granted, we were in seventh year so if there were ever a time for professors to be piling on the workload it would be now.

Did they really have to do it quite so drastically, though?

By the end of our first week, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was really, _really_ going to have to knuckle down and study. Really. The quartet of essays I'd been assigned on Friday were just the cherry on top of a sundae of reports, diagrams, annotated descriptions and textbook readings that my entire year had been assigned in the week following Christmas break. I did believe that even Scor was a little intimidated by the sheer magnitude of what had been left to us. Ozzy wore a permanently mournful expression whenever he held a quill in his hand, while Rhali just looked disgruntled. Disgruntled and indignant, as though she questioned the very nerve of the professors to assign us such a flood of homework.

I admit that I didn't do well under heavy workloads. I realise that sounds indulgent, but I seriously didn't. And the more work that piled on top, the worse it got. It was a pretty typical situation for senior students, was sure, but that knowledge didn't soften the reality of the situation in the slightest. I'd heard about the breakdowns of seventh years, the panic attacks and mania surrounding exams. Last year there was a bit of a frenzy around the Defence practical exam when a boy had a minor trip into insanity, blew up a spell in his own face and fled in a fit of terror into the Forbidden Forest. It took the professors three hours to find him, drag him out and calm him down.

Yes, it did happen. And I'd always sort of expected myself to succumb to some sort of anxiety attack along the way. Most likely in the actual exam, too.

The more work we got, the more tightly wound I felt myself become. In the entirely illogical and redundant way that panic instils itself, the longer I committed myself to my homework the higher my stress levels climbed. I found myself spending about as much time simply concentrating on my breathing, trying to ease my rising headache as I hung my head over parchment in a secluded section of the library as I did actually writing. It was a process; it did happen sometimes, and was part of the reason why I tended to dedicate myself wholly only to one subject at a time. Any more than that and… I just didn't have the _time_ to work through the process.

Scor worked alongside me a lot of the time, and his calm collectedness, even with the intensity and almost unnerving focus of his study habits, helped remarkably. Call it role model material if you would, but far be it from realising the own inadequacy of my own study methods, I actually felt a more motivated to push myself harder. That motivation surprisingly actually managed to dampen the threatening headaches and the anxiety pounding in my temples. If only Scor knew that such a tactic was so effective, he wouldn't have had to waste so much time last term pussy-footing around encouraging me, Rhali and Ozzy into greater dedication to our studies.

Rhali was there as often as not, too, grumbling all the while. As was Ozzy, and he at least lacked the barely audible cussing and savage jabs of the quill that Rhali deemed essential in completing her work. Ozzy had always been easy going, and while his own nervousness over the upcoming N.E. was still apparent it was hardly as overwhelming as my own, as Scor's, even as Rhali's – she would deny within an inch of her life that she was worried and yet was demonstrating a remarkable turnaround in her attentiveness in class. Ozzy just didn't have the passion for his studies, nor the overall inclination. I thought it might have be because he didn't have any clue of what he wanted to do with his marks; I was pretty much committed to my Herbology and Botanical studies, and there was no doubting that Rhali would do something in mathematics.

Ozzy didn't have that. And while it might have seemed sad, I had to wonder, for he was far more relaxed, at ease even, than any of the rest of us. When he watched me sit back from my parchment, put a hand to my temples and practice my breathing, his stare was always accompanied by a gentle words to the effect of, "Don't stress yourself so much, Al. If you fuck up, what's the worst that could happen? It's not liked it's the end of the world. There are other ways to get into doing what you want if you can't take the most direct route".

That was so typical of Ozzy. His words were entirely sincere because he believed them whole-heartedly. And he would always offer comfort to his friends if we needed it. Even with the incident of what happened over Christmas hanging between us. _That_ was so typically Ozzy as well. He was… incredible in that regard. I'd worried briefly that the confession of feelings and the realisation of the impossibility of their reciprocation would drive a wedge between us. It hadn't. Ozzy had very slowly and deliberately stated that he didn't want it to. That it was for that very reason that he hadn't told me in the first place. And, other than the occasional sad glance that I almost missed every now and again, it was. It was exactly the same.

Did that make me a horrible person for feeling relieved? There was certainly a heap of guilt settling itself comfortably on my shoulders but… thank God. Really, I didn't know what I would have done if I'd lost Ozzy as a friend. We no longer shared a physical relationship, but the emotional bond between friends was something I cherished far more than ever our intimacy and I couldn't bear to lose that for my own foolishness. I was greedy like that. Selfish and greedy. Thankfully Ozzy didn't mind.

Yet even with all of that, even with Scor's unwitting motivation and the camaraderie of Rhali's similar distress, even with Ozzy's sincere attempts at consolation, it was probably my Harproot that maintained my sanity the most. Blessed Harproot; I loved my sleep, but building stress always drove me towards a little bit of insomnia. With my Harproot, though, I was actually able to put aside those worries for a little bit and sink into restful and recuperative slumber.

I was using more of it than usual. I knew that, was aware of it, and was similarly aware that it was probably a problem that I'd need to get a hold of soon. Harproot wasn't addictive, not like Muggle drugs in that it drove a subconscious mental and physical pursuit for _more_. But the effects… yeah, they're a little addictive. A little. I could see how someone could become overly dependent upon them. Hell, I'd experienced it myself before and was determined not to fall victim to such habits again. It was just for now. Just briefly, to get me through seventh year. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't my main crutch.

So yeah, studies were being a bitch. But they weren't the only problem that arose in that new term. The second one was a matter with Scor, and in some ways it was definitely harder to deal with because I _couldn't_ deal with it. It was Scor's problem, and there was little I could do other that offer an ear to listen to complaints. Of which he gave precious little.

It started with a letter. On the morning of our second Monday, an impressive snowy owl, like the ones my Dad kept – a massive cohort of them for some ungodly reason _–_ landed gracefully upon the table before Scor. The Hufflepuff table, I might add. Scor had made good his pledge and was now sitting beside me for breakfast for the sixth day running. The whispers were still present, still fizzling in the air, but they seemed almost to be growing weary of the consistency of our actions, even after such a short time.

I paused in the act of peeling my orange and raised my eyebrow at Scor questioningly. I was certain that his family used eagle owls, and knew most of the owls his friends used by sight by now too. No, I'm not a stalker, even though I knew how that sounded. I just noticed the ones that frequently visit him in the Hall. That's all. Nothing more.

Scor caught my eye and offered a shrug. Placing his toast down and dusting his fingers of breadcrumbs – by God, how can someone make such a gesture look so bloody elegant? – he untied the letter from the owl's leg. The bird didn't wait for a reply, not even for titbit of reward, but spread its wings and launched itself into the air to disappear amongst the rafters a moment later.

Scor was already snapping the envelope open and running his eyes over the one-page letter he'd extracted from within before I dropped my attention back towards him. I watched his face as he read, and so bore witness to the progression from initial curiosity to confusion to indignation and finally blatant vexation. When he refolded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of his robe, his jaw was clenched tightly and he looked ready to spit fire.

"Something wrong?" I kept my voice quiet, denying any potential eavesdroppers their inclination to listen in. Not that I presumed there would have been any, but you never could be too careful. Or suspicious. People were weird; they fixated on the most trivial matters as though they were gold mines.

Scor had his eyes trained unseeing on the table before him, evidently deep in thought. That, or he was trying to split the polished wood with a single glare, I wasn't sure which. At my words, however, he glanced towards me, pushed a very noticeably forced smile onto his face. He shook his head. "No, nothing's wrong. Just a business associate."

I frowned. Business associate? What, of his Dad's? Scor wasn't even part of LeFay Connected yet, and though I knew from him that he was attempting to network already, surely there shouldn't be _business_ _associates_ contacting him. As in, for _work_. Bloody hell, he was only seventeen – little baby, he was younger than me by nearly four months – so they shouldn't be getting on his back yet, should they? Surely not.

Scor didn't speak any further on the subject. In fact, he seemed to want to leave it entirely untouched, so I didn't prod or pry. I didn't nag him with questions, even though I was curious about what had so annoyed him. I didn't like people butting uninvited into my business, so I could hardly expect him to be forthcoming about his own.

The letters kept arriving, though. Scor adopted an expression of annoyance at each one, though none quite so blatant as that for the first letter. Not because he was any less frustrated though; if anything, I could tell he was getting more irritated with each delivery. He just hid his reaction better.

They came consistently, every morning at breakfast and sometimes more than one. Scor would snap open the waxen seal, scan the contents of the letter, refold it, and put it into his pocket to remain completely unacknowledged for the rest of the day. He didn't comment on them and I didn't ask him; it was obviously something he was resolutely attempting to ignore, so I didn't push him into revealing more on the subject than he wanted to. Even if it did so obviously leave him seething.

I felt terribly sorry for him. As if the stress of upcoming exams wasn't bad enough. It was all I could do to offer my presence as support, provide a distraction when necessary, and to draw him so deeply into those distractions that he couldn't possibly think of anything else at the time. I would consider myself rather put out if he was, actually.

Not that he appeared to be. In our visits to the Room of Requirement, as with those to the Niche, Scor seemed to take the opportunity to simply let loose. I was a little relieved at the fact. I remembered all too well how rundown he'd appeared at the beginning of first term. It wouldn't do him any good to push himself to that extreme again.

The letters didn't solve themselves, though. They just kept coming, and I didn't think I was exaggerating when I suggested that there were more coming every day. It was even starting to annoy me. The real clincher, however, came at the end of our third week.

When I came down to breakfast on Friday morning, Scor wasn't in the Great Hall. That in itself was suspicious. Scor was an early riser. A _ridiculously_ early riser; he confirmed in a casually off-handed manner one day that he averaged about five hours of sleep a night because he got up early to study. I entirely believed him, because every morning as I walked into the Hall he was sitting at the Ravenclaw table with books spread around him, completely ignoring his fellow diners. It was uncanny, though; as though he had a sixth sense, Scor would always look up from his studies at my entrance, immediately pack away his books and join me at my table for a shared breakfast.

Talk about consistency. And dedication. Lots of dedication.

Friday morning saw no Scor at the Ravenclaw table, however. He wasn't at the Hufflepuff table either I noted after scanning the room. I realised what I was doing a moment later and, shaking my head self-deprecatingly, took myself to my own table. How easy it is to fall into new habits. I wasn't even the one that initiated our public display of boyfriend-like behaviour, and yet there I was feeling very definitely uneasy at the prospect of diverging from our newly acquired norm.

As it turned out, I had reason to be uneasy, or at least surprised. Scor didn't show up for the rest of breakfast, and he was remarkably absent from both the morning's Potions and Defence lessons. Which was a shame because I knew for a fact that he was really looking forward to brewing the Wit-Sharpening Potion we'd been working up to. I found it quite to my liking myself, though mostly because I came out of the class smelling quite refreshingly of ginger.

It was late afternoon by the time I finally saw him for the first time that day. Ozzy and I were heading down towards the Great Hall for dinner when, by perfect chance, Scor nearly collided into us coming though the front doors of the castle. From outside.

We all stumbled to a halt, exchanging startled blinks for a moment. Ozzy was the first to respond, physically shaking himself and taking a step towards the Great Hall. "I'm gonna get some dinner. Steak tonight and all, you know?" He gave me an unreadable stare that I returned with a quizzical one of my own before disappearing through the double doors.

Odd.

Although, not so odd when I turned my attention back to Scor.

He looked terrible. Not in a sick way, or an exhausted way. He didn't look to be saddened or mournful of anything in particular. No, as the momentary surprise faded from his face, Scor's expression fell into one bordering on fury.

I unconsciously took a step away from him. Which is terrible – I was supposed to be supportive of my boyfriend and all – but he looked terrifying. Baby troll level terrifying, who was nothing if not infuriated at missing his morning breakfast of newborn babies. With deliberate grounding I reversed that step and edged to his side. "Scor?"

Pale blue eyes turned towards me. They visibly sparked with anger, though it was gratifying to see it didn't appear to be directed towards me. I kept my expression open and as neutral as possible as he struggled to reply coherently. "Hi Al." Then nothing.

Well. This would get us nowhere. "Scor, what's wrong?" I paused, then frowned. "And where were you today?"

Almost before I'd finished Scor loosed something that sounded almost like a growl. It was so startling, so unlike Scor, that I was rendered momentarily speechless. Not that it mattered, for my question seemed to be enough urging for Scor to continue.

"I… I was at a meeting with my father. With some representatives from our Spanish branch who are looking to expand into Portugal. I…" He paused. A muscle twitched in his cheek, a sign I knew meant he was absolutely spitting chips. "My father thought it might be beneficial for me to accompany him."

We fell into awkward silence for a moment, Scor glaring daggers at his toes and me fidgeting from foot to foot in an attempt to urge my brain to think of some reply. "Oh…" I muttered. So eloquent of me. I swallowed. "And that's… you didn't want to go?"

Snorting loudly – I was still getting used to the strangeness of that sound coming from him – Scor tipped his head backwards and raised a hand to squeeze at the bridge of his nose. He looked physically pained, but a moment later his shoulders sagged slightly and he gave a bitter laugh. "It's not that I didn't want to go. It's beneficial for me to meet these people, to get to know the men and women I'm to be working with and, eventually I guess, leading. But…"

I let the pause extend for a few minutes. A few very long minutes. "But?"

Shoulders sagging even further, Scor finally dropped his hand from his nose and turned his gaze towards me. He didn't look quite so angry anymore. "But it's fucking shit!" Nope, I was wrong. He was still angry. "I didn't… I mean…" He growled again, snapping his head sideways to glare towards the half open doors of the Great Hall and folding his arms across his chest. "It took me out of school. That meeting, something that happens once every bloody month, took me out of school for an entire day. I hardly have enough time as it is to study, and to add this on top of it?"

I didn't know what to say, not in the face of Scor's anger. My family didn't really get angry exactly – no, that's wrong. Mum and Lily could get angry, but it's always quick to rise and quick to deflate. Dad, James and me, we do our best to keep out of the line of fire when such instances arose. I personally didn't really get angry. Upset, sure, but not really the ranting anger that Lily pulls on a regular basis. And maybe because I didn't experience it myself, I didn't know how to deal with it. Something urged me to speak, however, though I didn't know if Scor even realised I still stood beside him there. He didn't seem to be talking _to_ me anymore, just raging. "And you… didn't actually want to go?"

Sighing, Scor shook his head. "Like I said, it's not that I didn't want to go. I mean, Father _asked_ me if I wanted to go; he didn't force me into it. But how could I say no? This sort of thing is as pivotal to my future as my studies are. If I was going to pass up such an opportunity, how could I actually claim that I'm dedicated to my future at Father's company? And not only that, but it _was_ educational for me. Damn me, but it _was_. It's just…"

And finally I understood. It clicked in a moment what the problem was, and like a dam unleashed I felt as though I'd reached a new understanding of Scor.

I'd always sort of suspected that he didn't feel entirely committed to joining LeFay Connected. No, uncommitted wasn't the right way of phrasing it. He didn't seem _confident_ with his decision. I got the impression that it stemmed from some misguided sense of inadequacy, which was completely irrational because I couldn't think of someone more perfect for training to becoming the CEO of one of the Wizarding worlds most prominent businesses.

In that moment, though, I realised I'd been wrong. Scor lacked confidence in his decision, yes, but it wasn't because of any feelings of inadequacy. Or at least I didn't think it was. No, what dawned on me was that Scor… I didn't think Scor actually wanted to join his Dad's company at all. He was obsessed with pushing himself into the mould of an entry-level employee, but even so his heart didn't seem to be behind his actions. And the reason, I was beginning to understand, was because it was very decidedly filled with something else.

It should have been obvious. Scor loved potions, loved Potioneering, with a passion. More than that, though, he in an avid studier. Not like me; other than for Herbology, I studied because I had to, to get the marks and to pass my classes. Scor, though; he seemed to genuinely love the act of learning. He chewed through books faster than my Auntie Hermione, and he so obviously enjoyed drinking up knowledge that I was surprised it had taken me so long to put the pieces together. Scor was rarely more verbally animated than in our debates in Alchemy, and in History of Magic he was one of so few that actually asked Binns questions in class that he was practically the sole audience. If that isn't indication enough, I didn't know what was.

And this meeting, this dominating commitment drawn from his future workplace… "It's taking you away from your studies, huh?"

At my words, the last of the tension tightening Scor's shoulders slipped away. With a sigh, the anger faded with it, leaving weariness in its wake. Scor slowly turned his gaze towards me. "It sounds stupid, doesn't it?"

I shook my head. Stupid? No, it wasn't stupid. I couldn't fully empathise exactly, but I managed to a degree. I hated it when I had another commitment that got in the way of my Wednesday afternoons with Neville in the greenhouse. I could understand that at least. "No, it doesn't." I paused, considering. "Tell me about it?"

Scor stood immobile for a moment, staring at me unblinkingly. There was a hint of awkwardness to his stance that I attributed to the consideration of 'sharing feelings'. From what I could gather, most people didn't really like doing that sort of thing. But slowly that weariness grew in his eyes to replace. I felt another upwelling of sympathy for him and, because we were alone and it didn't bother me in the slightest in such a situation, I stepped towards him and wrapped my arms around his waist. There was a brief moment where it was only I partaking the embrace before Scor folded into me in return.

From that evening onwards our routine changed a little bit. Just a little bit. The owls still came, and Scor still enacted his morning ritual of repressing his annoyance at the scraps of elegantly scripted parchment, but after that we talked. I learned a lot about people I'd never heard of before, and some more about those I knew by name as Scor released his frustration over the nagging of his future work partners and the clientele that were already flicking him for attention. He talked mostly, while I listened and offered my commiseration to him for being the unwilling recipient of so much whinging attention.

I liked to think I helped. I thought I did. Scor didn't snap like he had the day he took off from school; no more swearing from his squeaky clean mouth. We talked in privacy, sometimes just sitting. We spent more time studying, and kept up a welcome habit of intense yet relieving intimacy that I personally thought did us both a world of good. Never the two habits at the same time, of course. I don't think even Scor ever considered taking a break from studying to fool around, and he somehow managed to entirely remove any thoughts of his obsessive academic habits from his mind in the instances when we did.

It wasn't getting better. I doubted that it would. But I at least liked to think that the situation wasn't getting worse. Seventh year students hardly needed the extra strain.

* * *

Scor didn't exactly snap the next time he went off campus for a meeting. No, it wasn't _snapping,_ exactly. But it was definitely a change from the norm.

He told me this time when, a little over a month into our return to school, he got a letter from his father suggesting it might do him good to sit in on the February Directors meeting. Something to do with witnessing the inclusion of the latest and highly controversial bill to be passed in their halls, which sounded far less impressive when Scor talked about it than I think it actually was. Surely that would be interesting, right? At least to the right person?

When he returned that evening, he wasn't angry. I met him in the Entrance hall at six because that was the time he said he was coming back. Much and all as I would rather avoid being the sole witness to his anger, he _was_ my boyfriend and support through the good and the bad was what we were supposed to offer one another, right?

I was sitting halfway up the stairwell leading to the eastern wing of the castle, idly flicking through my phone in wait. The mechanics of the device weren't quite as effectively protected by the Rune inscriptions in a place so magically potent as Hogwarts so I tried not to use it and risk burning them out, but Scor was already late by about half an hour and I was bored shitless.

When the front doors opened I glanced up immediately. Scor strode through the doorway, eyes trained on the floor and the picture of composure. Except that I knew in an instant that he was anything but. There was a whipcord-like tension tightening his neck, his face, his shoulders, and the careful neutrality on his face was disrupted every other moment by his eyes darting sideways to glance at something that wasn't there.

On edge, I'd call it. Which couldn't be a good thing.

He noticed me waiting for him only when he'd crossed half of the Entrance Hall. As though magnetised, Scor's feet redirected him towards me. He jogged slightly up the steps, the echoes of his footfalls ringing off the stone in the empty Hall, and paused before me.

He wasn't angry, that much I could see just by looking at him. No, there was something else there, a roiling emotion in Scor's eyes that was only made apparent when they turned directly towards me, meeting my own. It was almost… confused? A little bit frustrated but mostly… something else. "Scor?"

Opening his mouth, Scor took a breath before clamping his jaw shut again. He shifted in place, casting a glance over his shoulder as though agitated. I rose to my feet, frowning. "What's wrong? Are you alright? How did it go?"

Scor didn't reply immediately. He cast another glance over his shoulder before turning back to me and drawing a slightly shaking breath. "Al, do you mind if I, um…" He trailed off.

Sweeping the frown from my face, I gave him a small smile. "Sure, Scor. Whatever you need." I didn't know what he wanted, but I was certain, absolutely certain, that I would give it to him if I could.

Scor evidently heard the sincerity of my words. His expression, that roiling in his eyes, settled infinitesimally into gratitude touched with a strangely heated light. I didn't get a chance to discern more, however, for with a sharp nod Scor was jogging up the steps past me again, slipping his hand into mine as he passed and tugging me along behind him. I followed compliantly.

We didn't go far, which was good, because I was hardly a runner, nor even a jogger. Along a fairly unused corridor, seemingly at random, Scor stopped before an unremarkable door, nudged it open and pulled me inside.

It was a room we'd used before. For Alchemy, actually; one of our theory lessons about two weeks ago that I'd never been in before or since. Small enough that a class of anything more than ten people would be hard pressed to fit, it had only a large, central table roughly square in shape and ringed by chairs that actually held a modicum of comfort for classroom seating. There was a blackboard at one end of the room beside the sole window and… and that was all I got to make out before my attention was forcibly diverted.

He'd heeded my wishes, Scor had. He didn't perform PDAs, not since that first 'announcement' day at the beginning of term, even though I knew he probably would have liked to every now and then. It was just a suspicion, observed from the sideways glances and occasional brush of fingertips that were too brief to be noticed as anything but a passing motion. But when we were in privacy, he made up for it. And I was more than happy to follow suit.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind us, Scor was wrapped around me in a very familiar and admittedly quite appealing hold. His arms locked around my shoulders, pulling me against him, and I barely caught my breath before his lips fell upon mine. An instant later our tongues were coiling in a heated caress that mimicked the motions of Scor's hands on my back. Holding – more like grasping – and urging me backwards further into the room with stumbling steps.

All of it, everything, was rougher, faster, more feverish, than I was used to. Ozzy and I had always been up for experimenting, and that included its own array of strange situations and approaches but it was never quite like how Scor was acting. Never all that directive or domineering. Ozzy just simply wasn't one to make overt demands. It wasn't in his nature.

I couldn't deny though, that, unfamiliar though it was, I certainly found this novelty arousing. Especially as, until now, it had generally been me who was in control of our intimate encounters. This newness made my blood race.

I bumped blindly into the central table as Scor urged me across the room. His hands were all over me, tugging demandingly at my tie, at my robes, reaching for my belt before I even had the presence of mind to attempt the same in return. We didn't actually manage to shed any of our clothing, not from either of us, before I felt Scor's hand slip down the front of my trousers, his hand wrap around my length.

My breath stuttered at the flare of sensitivity that shot instantly through me. Tender skin shivered and sprung to life under Scor's touch, almost painfully good in the firm gasp of his hand. I wasn't complaining, though. For though it was almost painful, it just felt altogether _too good_ as well.

It was awkward, the jerking motions uncoordinated and slightly manic. Scor himself was in a frenzy of sorts, hair falling uncharacteristically into his eyes, those pale eyes bright and fevered, and face dropping towards me every second to press hot kisses against my lips, my cheeks, my neck. I found myself, for the first time, solely the recipient of his ministrations. My thoughts were sparking, becoming cloudy, and I didn't even have the presence of mind to attempt to return the favour of my own hand. It was all I could do maintain my footing, to keep a grasp on the lapels of Scor's robes and prevent my knees from buckling.

Warmth flooded my groin and I panted in gasps, the building pleasure and my hardness between Scor's fingers rising with a speed almost too fast to bear. Until all too soon his stroking abruptly stopped. I unconsciously let out a very pathetic-sound of distress, which, blessedly, I don't think Scor even heard. He was focused, slipping into the same state of concentration that I'd witnessed when he became engrossed in his potions study, yet this time it was tinged with heat and that frenzied wildness. With capable hand, he directed me to spin around, urging me forwards slightly until I fell back across the desk.

I caught myself on my hands, panting with legs trembling, and glanced through heavy eyes over my shoulder. Scor had his wand out, pointed at his palm and I could hear him mutter _"Oleumus_ " in a gasping rasp. Liquid pooled in his palm and I had only a moment to feel a sense of satisfaction that he'd finally actually gotten around to casting the spell himself before he slid up behind me and pressed himself to my back. I could feel his arousal nudging me through my trousers, nearly as hard as my own.

Scor fumbled in motions that I couldn't and didn't need to see. The sound of a belt buckle unfastening, the rustle of clothing, the tug of my trousers being drawn down my legs. The feel of the open air against my thighs, against the heat between my legs, left me quivering with the sensitivity of my own skin and leaning heavily upon the desk. Until Scor slipped his slickened fingers into me and then all I could think about was the feeling of those lovely, lovely fingers.

The thing about Maghdarg's Brew was that, while it did take away the need for extensive preparation, it could be a very disconcerting experience for someone who'd never felt anything like it before. Personally, I wouldn't recommend it for a first timer, even if I swore by it now, simply because the feeling of arousal and the knock-on effect of ones body magically being unravelled in an entirely different area is an experience in and of itself. Ozzy never really got accustomed to that.

Me? It had taken awhile, but yeah, I would say I was used to it now. More than used to it, I think it would almost be stranger _not_ to feel the effects of the Brew every time I got turned on. Which might sound weird to anyone else, but whatever. Because I actually _liked_ it. Just as I liked being taken, more so even than doing the taking myself. It just… did it for me.

So Scor's fingers, even as a precursor to the actual act, were a major turn on. One finger, two, three; he didn't last for long, didn't need to for the effects of the Brew, and I was quite happy for the fact. I didn't really need it. And when those fingers were removed and replaced by his arousal, thick and hard and slick with it's own fluids and lubrication. I groaned aloud, nearly folding onto the table before me.

I'd never had sex in a classroom before. Never on top of a desk either. So alongside Scor's newfound assertiveness, it was a riot of new experiences for me. Which would usually leave me unnerved and frazzled, but I was too caught up in the moment for anxiety to even catch a hold. Scor slid into me quickly, more quickly than usual. It was a little painful; I could only appreciate the fact that I was as aroused as I was, because apparently his needs weren't all that rational when it came to considering the practicalities of the situation.

He bottomed out with a groan that I found myself mimicking in a muffle, my forehead pressed against the desk. Only the sounds of our pants filled the room, loud in the otherwise dusty silence. Until Scor started moving, and the slap of skin on skin that accompanied the reiteration of groans overrode that quietness.

The feeling was intense. Even without my hardness pressed between myself and the desk, rubbed achingly each time Scor thrust into me, the very feel of Scor inside of me, the thickness of him sliding against my inner walls and triggering little sparks of sensation, would have been intoxicating enough. And then, when he established a rhythm, Scor shifted his angle slightly and _by God._

He was uncannily good at finding _that_ spot.

I cried out in a hoarse voice, closing my eyes and revelling in the pleasure growing rapidly within me. My hands clutched at the top of the desk, scrambling for anything to stabilise myself as Scor grasped my hips and pounded into me again and again, hard and fast and driving onto _that point_ that caused my knees to tremble like a newborn colt's. Had the desk been absent, I would surely have crumpled to the ground.

It was so… it was just so…

Scor's pants sounded heavily in my ear, close in a way that told me he'd curled himself over the top of me. I hardly had the presence of mind to consider his pose. My mind was a hazy ball of mounting pleasure, of passion, my own breaths coming fast in tandem to the jerks of my body. It was all I could do to take the pleasure that Scor forced upon me. And take it I did. Gladly.

In an almost embarrassingly short time I found myself coming hard and fast, the strain in groin building with incredible speed and ferocity and _demanding_ release. I cried out a warble of ecstasy, my fingers digging painfully into the desk as dampness seeped into my shirt. Scor groaned lowly in response, his thrusts jerking faster and faster, losing the rhythm he'd developed as a sense of urgency took its place. I was only just gaining a modicum of mindfulness, struggling for breath, when he snapped his hips forwards one last time and the feeling of warmth and wetness flooded into me. I wouldn't lie, it wasn't the most pleasant of feelings in the world, but in that moment I could hardly care. The tingles of heightened sensitivity darted through me as Scor jerked and shuddered, bathing in the folds of his own pleasure.

Ragged breaths sounded right beside my ear, catching and releasing in gasps even harder than my own. I turned my head slightly as I felt Scor drop his head onto my shoulder. His arms released my hips and instead wrap around my waist in a tight hold that was in some ways more intimate than the spontaneous sex. Our breaths unconsciously synced up, and together we lay in the aftermath of intense passion, struggling for recovery.

Finally, Scor made the admirable effort of pushing himself upwards and I felt his flaccid length slip from me, leaving a discomforting wet emptiness in its place. His warmth retreated from my back and, taking the unspoken suggestion as it was offered, I pushed myself onto my elbows and attempted to straighten. Only to have my legs nearly fold beneath me, wobbling like jelly.

Scor was there, blessedly, to catch me before I face planted, though I did nearly succeed in just dragging him to the floor with me. His arms locked around my waist and held me steady as I managed to encourage my legs into doing their duty.

"Sorry," Scor murmured. His voice was nearly muffled mute by my hair as he pressed his lips into it.

Frowning, I drew my head away to glance up at him. The frenzied intensity I'd beheld but minutes before had faded, leaving only a sex-mussed and hazy Scor in its wake. Which was entirely appealing to me – because God was he gorgeous; he could wake up the morning after a bender and jump straight on a runway – but I doubted he'd be alright with letting anyone else see it. I reached up and combed my fingers through his hair, fixing the tussled mess. "What are you apologising for?"

Scor sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "I kind of lost control there."

"And?"

"And I didn't mean to force you like that."

Sighing my exasperation, I took a firm grasp of Scor's blond curls and turned his head towards me. "Hey," I grumbled when he wouldn't open his eyes to look at me. Almost sheepishly, Scor peeked his eyelids open. "If I didn't want you to, I wouldn't have let you, yeah? Come on, Scor, I'm not helpless. I'm more than capable of letting you know if you're being a pushy bastard."

Scor gave a bark of laughter, which seemed to surprise him if his following expression was any indication. "Yeah, I can imagine you would."

"Damn straight. So don't go thinking this is all about you and what you want." I pursed my lips, striving for an impression of indignation rather than the reassurance I was really intending. "Because I'm allowed to enjoy myself just as much as you are. I get just as much say in the matter, okay?"

The guilt on Scor's face was slowly fading, replaced by a small smile. I took that as a personal triumph. "Yeah. Yes, I hear you. I'm just… at the moment…"

"Yeah, I know," I offered soothingly, returning to my ministrations of Scor's hair. In the dopey state he was in, I doubted he'd have the presence of mind to do it for himself, and tired out by our exploits though I was, I was the only one around to save face for him for when we exited the classroom. "I really do know, Scor."

And I did. We all went through our rough patches, and though I'd never experienced what Scor was going through I knew that much at least. Just like I knew that simply offering support when he needed it was probably all he wanted. Scor was the sort of person that could only accept his problems as being fixed when he fixed them himself.

"You alright? Want to talk about it?"

Scor sighed heavily, shifting to hold me with just a tad more tightness and hummed under his breath before replying. "Talk? Not right now. No, I'm alright. It was… I'm alright. Sorry, don't know what came over me, I just –"

Leaning in to press a kiss onto Scor's lips, I silenced him. He accepted the unspoken suggestion easily and as I leaned back and offered a smile of my own, the one he returned was slightly more genuine this time. I'd like to think he looked at least a little better than he had when he returned back to school that evening. Sure, Scor might be the one that had to sort out his problems, but I'd be waiting there on the sidelines for whenever he needed me. Of that I was certain.


	13. Someone Looking Out For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another update! Woohoo, I'm on a roll! I figured I should make up for my sporadic updating of late, so enjoy!

_~Scoprius~_

"No, Al."

"It wasn't a question, Scor."

"I don't care. The answer's still no."

Al pursed his lips in a way that was far too distracting to be constituted fair play and propped his chin on one hand, elbow on the table. "Are you saying you're going to make me go by myself?"

Sighing, I placed down my butter knife and turned towards him more fully. Sunday in the Great Hall wasn't terribly busy at this time in the morning; many people forewent breakfast entirely at the prospect of a longer sleep in. Al used to be one to sleep in more too, but I'd noticed that since we'd been sharing our mornings that he made more of an effort to get down here before eight o'clock. Most of the time, anyway, and grumbling all the way, of course – Al wasn't a morning person – but he managed. I wasn't sure if I should feel guilty or delighted that I'd pushed him into making the effort. Maybe a bit of both.

As it was, the Great Hall was only about half full. There was no particular need for me to strain my ears over a ruckus, but I the expression of petulant disgruntlement on Al's face suggested he wasn't inclined to giving me a choice in monopolising my full attention. I abandoned any chances of eating breakfast until we'd sorted out the issue.

"I told you why I don't want to go."

Nodding at me slowly, as though I were simple, Al replied with equal slowness, "Yes, and I told you that your reason is exactly why you need to come along in the first place."

"That would be counterproductive, Al. I have numerous essays that require completion before the coming week, and reports, and an analysis of –"

"Give me three." Al interrupted me, holding up three fingers. "Give me three essays that you actually still have to finish – actual essays, not one of the one's you're doing in your spare time for practice or whatever – and I'll admit you have a workload full enough to abandon me into going to Hogsmeade alone."

I sighed. He got me. Three essays? I had two that were, admittedly, so close to completion they could have been passably submitted already. But other than that… Yes, my work was mostly extra study. I'd hoped to get in another re-writing of the hyper-conversion of tin into copper for Alchemy, but… Al's words, particularly the very pointed 'abandon', spurred me towards guilt once more. "You do realise we're in seventh year, don't you?"

Al rolled his eyes. "Yes, I believe you have mentioned it once or twice."

"And you understand that to achieve the best marks I possibly can, I need to study."

"You spend your life studying, Scor. What you need is to let loose a little sometimes or you'll burn yourself out."

"I let loose –"

"Really?" Al raised a sceptical eyebrow. "What time did you get up this morning to start studying?"

"It wasn't that early –"

"And what time did you finally go to bed last night _after_ studying."

"Most people stay up late to study. You're just the exception –"

"When was the last time you picked up a book and read simply for the fun of it? Or last rode a broom? You always say you used to love quidditch but you don't even fly anymore."

"That's because I'm _studying_ , Al," I finally managed to cut in, exasperated. He was making me sound like a machine whose sole purpose in life was to study. Which… actually sounded pretty accurate of me at the moment. "I'll get back to enjoying myself more after exams have passed."

"Really? You really think so?" The scepticism was thick in Al's tone, reflecting his dubiously raised eyebrow. "Because it sounds to me like you'll be pretty bogged down with your dad's business right off the bat."

"Please don't call him 'dad'. It sounds so horrendously informal," I muttered. It was the only objection I could make to that statement because really, Al was right. I'd be surprised if I woke up the day after my exams had completed and found less than half a dozen owls at my window scrambling for attention with messages in hand. Or… in claw.

The last month and a half had been… trying, to say the least. Every morning, with the blessed exception of Sundays, found me assaulted by at least a pair of owls laden with expensive parchment envelopes embroidered with precise calligraphy and discussing my father's company, my future position in it, congratulating me on my dedication to my studies and requesting the attendance to a formal dinner to introduce themselves. Because really, most of the letters I received were from people that I'd never met before. Half of them were from foreign nobles, Lord and Ladies with a desire to step into the international business world through LeFay Connected. And they saw me as a stepping stone to that goal.

But they weren't the worst of the bunch. The worst, the ones I hated the most, were those that _asked_ for things. Asked me to put in a word with my father, to consider looking favourably upon their company in future and to consider them 'a friend', those who even went so far as to almost-threaten me to look upon them with a warm gaze or risk losing them as valued clientele. Those were the one I _hated_.

I wasn't even working for LeFay yet. How bad would they get when I finished school?

It was wearing me down, truth be told. On top of my study load – all ten units clamouring for attention that I could only give sparingly – it was exhausting. I was living off minimal sleep and studied through every opportunity that presented itself, taking a pause only when physically ladling food into my mouth or, on the now infrequent instances, when I joined Al, Rhali and Ozzy in the Niche to chew on Happy Gum. Or when –

"We haven't had sex in three days, either."

I snorted. Yes, that. When Al and I were intimate was one of the few instances when I was so completely focused upon something else that I didn't even consider studying. How could I, when something so utterly gorgeous, so fascinatingly addictive, was right in front of me and within my grasp? Was _pushing_ himself into my grasp? Al honestly didn't seem to even realise how smitten I was with him that he could so draw me from my focus. And I was most utterly smitten. It was actually a little worrying at times, and I tried to keep it under wraps as much as possible. I must have done a good job of it, too, because Al didn't run screaming from me in terror as I'm sure he would have done if he knew just how much I liked him.

I cast a quick, unnecessary glance around us to gauge the proximity of our fellow students before replying. They were well out of hearing distance, which I had actually anticipated; there was no way Al would be speaking so openly if they weren't. "You say that as though it's something exceptional. Three days isn't really that long."

"For us it is. Am I the only one of us that's been aware of just how frequently we've gotten together since term started?"

No. No, he certainly wasn't. How could I not be aware, when, despite being embedded firmly in my own studies, those escapades were what I _lived_ for? It was almost strange, how utterly captivated I was by Al when I had so much else on my mind. In all consideration I should not have had the time to give him half a glance. But Al? Somehow he'd worked his way into my mind and placed himself in a seat at least on par with the importance of my studies. No, it had to be higher than that even, I think. How else could I explain the fact that, no matter what, he was at the forefront of my mind?

"I am well aware of such. I am an active participant in these incursions."

"Are you really?" Al smirked. "That's gratifying to know. I had worried that perhaps you were running Charms revision spells in your head throughout the duration."

"You really think I'm that obsessed with study?" I was more curious than affronted to hear him say as much.

"Oh, I don't think it's much of a stretch to think that way, Mr Prefect," Al replied with a sigh, using Rhali's nickname for me. It didn't quite hold the same derogatory connotations coming from Al; he sounded more fondly exasperated than derisive. "But really, I have to wonder if you just want me for my body…."

"Excuse me?" I felt incredulous bemusement spread through me and raised my own eyebrow at the beginnings of a smile tweaking Al's lips.

He glanced at me sidelong, his lips quivering on the verge of widening his grin, before sighing again. His tone was that of a theatre player, grandiose and thick with drama. "Oh, woe is me that my boyfriend will only look at me when we're having sex. What have we become?"

"What are you going on about?" I couldn't help my own smile from spreading across my face. Such a drama queen. If only the rest of the school knew.

"Only that we don't _talk_ anymore, Scor. It's either sex or avoidance. I almost have to wonder if you've got someone on the side." He turned to me balefully, eyes wide in that puppy-dog expression he pulled so well, bottom lip pouting.

"You're trying to make me feel guilty," I smirked. It was all in jest, I knew, and ridiculous and irrelevant as his claim was I actually found I was enjoying the farce. Al could be weird like that sometimes. He always managed to liven up any situation he wanted to.

"Of course I am! You need to spend more time with me rather than this bitch called Study."

"We study _together_ , in case you didn't realise."

"Exactly." Al abruptly dropped his posturing, and raising both eyebrows pointedly at me as though I'd just slipped up and revealed a crucial fact. "We _study_. That's it."

"We're seventh years –"

"Who should be living life outside of the dusty depths of the library."

"I did suggest we could study in the Niche," I reminded him, finally turning back towards my plate of cooling toast and raising the butter knife.

"Blergh!" Al pulled a face. "You would taint our Niche with such a pervasive stain? Scor, how could you?"

"It was just a suggestion."

"Yeah, and a suggestion made to very pointedly diverge from the topic at hand. You're avoiding my question." Folding his arms across the table, Al fixed me with an unshakeable stare. I knew there was no avoiding him now; I knew I was set to spend the day at Hogsmeade with him doing God knew what, and surprisingly, though the guilt at avoiding a day of study flooded through me, I couldn't bring myself to feel all that regretful. It was spending a day with Al, after all. "So?"

"So we really shouldn't."

"That's not an excuse. Not a valid one, anyway." A smile crooked the side of Al's mouth. He knew he'd won before I'd even officially caved. "So we're going?"

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

I sighed, frowning at the square of toast I balanced before me on my fingers. "Manage to get your way so often."

"So often?" Al snorted, reaching for his cup of pumpkin juice. "Hardly." He paused with the glass half-raised to his lips. "Although, today I'd be more than happy to accept that yes, I am getting my way."

"Of course you are."

"Damn straight. You do what you're told, boyo."

"Boyo?" I raised an eyebrow and narrowed my eyes at him. He didn't reply, only offering his wide, adorable smile in return. And in the glow of that smile, any further resistance I had on the subject evaporated.

Hogsmeade it was.

* * *

"So, where exactly did Rhali say she had an appointment today?"

Al chuckled at my side, kicking a pebble to skitter off into the distance along the muddy main road of Hogsmeade. He thrust his hands further into his pockets as a particularly bitter gust of icy wind buffeted us. "I believe it was deeply embedded in the Slytherin dormitories beneath a heavy blanket with her eyes closed."

"Ah. Of course. And Ozzy?"

"Ozzy's a wind-sprite, Scor. You should know by now that when he says he's 'got something to do' he's off with the fairies."

"So going for a run around the lake, then?"

"Most probably."

"Even in this weather?" I cast a deliberate glance around us at the damp pavement of the streets and passers-by bundled thickly in coats, scarves and gloves. "He's really taken to this fitness regime, hasn't he?"

"You're telling me," Al muttered with a shake of his head. I smirked. Al was definitely not one to partake in physical activities, and certainly not if it meant leaving the comforting warmth of The Indoors. Not even flying, which, all things considered, took more balance and coordination that physical exertion to achieve. I'd seen him shudder at the word 'cardio' when Ozzy brought it up.

We'd been wandering through the streets of Hogmeade for nearly three hours, spitting in the face of the poor weather to persist and doing little more than window-shopping. Al urged us to stop by at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to wave a greeting to the assistant – his cousin Louis who was reportedly working there part time at present – and showing me some of the wares. His uncle was a bit of a mastermind when it came to joke products. I would have been sceptical, condescending even, in any other situation, but really, some of his stock was ingenious. Even something as cheap as the two-for-three packs of Anima-Drops were incredible; the skill taken to embed a semi-animal Transfiguration into the candy was exceptional. Al and I spent a good half an hour working our way through several packets, briefly acquiring talons and goat eyes, lizards tongues and whiskers to our mutual enjoyment.

I felt guilty, of course. Guilty that I was spending hours away from my books, of the precious time I should have spent stuffing my head with necessary facts for the future and the fast approaching exams. On top of that, I felt a different kind of guilt, a guilt that accused me for enjoying myself at such a critical time when I should have been acting the prefect and role model and demonstrating to the younger years exactly how a seventh year was supposed to act.

Instead, I was nearly falling to my knees as Al and I snickered over the pig's snout and webbed fingers we'd temporarily grown.

Because even with that guilt, I couldn't say I regretted it. Not really. Just spending the time with Al, it was… it was just so _liberating_. Al often made me feel that way, even, to a lesser degree, when we studied together in the library and barely exchanged a word for hours on end. Definitely when we briefly shared our meals and most certainly in our trips to the Room of Requirement. I regretted, really, that I hadn't had more of a chance to spend time with him sooner; if only I'd known how much… yes, how much _fun_ I could have with him, maybe my previous years at Hogwarts would have been a very different experience.

I let Al lead me most of the morning. Hogsmeade wasn't a big village, but there were a couple of newish stores that I'm quite fond of. Bizarre Books for one, from which I purchased to the eye-rolling audience of Al a selection of advanced coursework texts. I couldn't help but take a brief glimpse into 'YWWG: Young Witches and Wizards Galore' that, apparently, held ' _every possible need for the young witch and wizard'_. They did have quite an impressive display of the latest quidditch gear, which I had to very deliberately turn away from. I knew Al saw me looking and though his expression became slightly regretful it was thankfully free of pity or even sympathy.

By the time lunch-time rolled around, we'd exhausted the limits of Hogsmeade, even going so far as to stick our heads into the ever-silent and horribly stuffy interior of the gypsy hedge witch's nameless shop. Everyone at school called it the Cave of Doom, and it truly did appear to be rather cave-like, if not quite do doom-some. Dark and musty, I wasn't entirely sure what the wrinkled old woman sold except for a bit of everything. And when I said 'a bit', I truly meant 'a bit'. As in, halves or things. What the possible function of half a gyrometer could have was a mystery me. How could it even fly with only one propeller?

Making our way down the main street of the village and pointedly ignoring the wind that rose and fell in variable fluctuations, Al and I chatted of nothing but the trivial. We barely spared a glance for those we passed, villagers and fellow students alike. The guilt that clung to me had settled into the back of my mind to brood silently as the sun drifted across its apex, and I found it a welcome relief to be at least partially free of the overhanging cloud.

Al, for all his exasperated bemoaning of the absence of Rhali and Ozzy, seemed himself to be in a happier mood than usual. I knew that he too wasn't removed enough from his studies that the weight of exams didn't press down insistently upon him. He was actually quite studious when he put his mind to it, especially to the studies he had an affinity with. I knew from Ozzy, and a little directly from Al too, though he tended not to talk about it, that he was prone to falling prey to anxiety. I'd witnessed it myself several times, most outstandingly after the first newspaper article, the one of our kiss.

Seeing the relaxed smile on his face, I was relieved that I had caved and agreed to join him today. I'd regret it later most likely but the break was as much for him as it was for me.

Eventually, we worked our way into the Three Broomsticks. It was a large establishment, the largest in Hogsmeade by quite a significant stretch, and was systematically refurbished and renovated every three years or so. Old Madam Rosmerta worked alongside her nephew to run the joint, and they basically managed the entire inn single-handedly between the two of them.

And manage they did. I actually quite liked the inn, though I knew my extended family would be horrified that I felt anything more than distasteful acceptance of its presence in the village. It was always clean, had a comforting, homely smell of polished timbre and burning pine smoking gently from the fireplace, and there was always enough seats at the widely spaced tables to ensure that no one was left standing.

At midday, the inn was barely a quarter full despite it being a Hogsmeade weekend. By-passing Madam Rosmerta to order our lunch, I followed Al to his chosen table and slipped into the bench beside him. The seat afforded us a decent view of the entire room and all of its occupants, something I'd noticed was a common and apparently unconscious inclination on Al's part; he didn't like being around too many people at once, and unless he had visible proof that no one was close enough to hear him speak, then he... wouldn't. Simple as that.

I'd noticed that about him too. Al was a talkative person. Really, he was remarkably chatty, something that had surprised me in the early days of our friendship. The same could be said for Rhali and Ozzy; each of them seemingly had the capacity to talk and talk on end, spouting like water from an enchanted tap. Not always about meaningful subjects, too - rarely did the conversation in the Niche descend into solemnity, and on those occasions Al always came prepared with a supply of Happy Gum or Harproot.

I found that quite relieving, actually. I had only tentatively partaken in such conversations myself – I wasn't much for big heart to hearts, though the three of them were certainly attempting to instil it in me – but when I had it had been with such assistance. And it really helped. Really.

And yet, in spite of their natural ability to chatter, there was their public personas. The flip side of the coin, if you will. For throw any of them into a room with other people and they were as close-lipped as a mute and as wary as a child beneath the stern eye of their mother. They were the polar opposite to the friendly affection - or hard love in Rhali's case - that I had grown to care for so fiercely. Truly care for, I realised, in a way that I had never experienced with friends before. My family, certainly, but friends? Comparing Rhali and Ozzy, comparing Al who was so much more, to Tatsuya, to Drisella and Hamish and Phillippe... different didn't even begin to cover it.

I only regretted that my newer friends felt the need to become entirely different people when around the greater populace. If only everyone knew, if they only knew what they were truly like, they would hardly be considered the oddities, the social outcasts, the 'strange' that they were frequently labelled as. The fact that they partook of recreational drugs was hardly even a feature I considered prominent of any of their characters; there was so much more to them besides that I almost cringed whenever I considered how I had passingly thought of them as 'the stoners'. And Al's Harproot and Happy Gum? Such hardly even seemed in keeping with the stereotypes I knew of drugs.

In the Three Broomsticks, with at least three empty tables between us and the other diners, Al was the friend and boyfriend that I had so come to care for. He didn't huddle in his seat, shrinking from the view of others and keeping his mouth clamped firmly closed unless directly spoken to. He didn't cast me sidelong glances that desperately pleaded for me to 'keep my trap shut and _please_ don't ask me anything'. No, without direct onlookers, without the chance of eavesdroppers picking up a stray word or phrase, he smiled, he chuckled quietly, he _spoke_.

I had to wonder where this duality of character had originally come from.

Madam Rosmerta arrived with our lunch and a pair of butter beers as we chatted idly. As soon as the woman approached, Al fell silent and waited until she had unloaded herself and left. He wasn't glaring exactly, nor did he actively seem to be resenting her presence, but it was very clear to me, and likely to Rosemerta even, that he would maintain his silence until she left. She did. Quickly.

Picking up my fork, I paused in the act of tucking into my steak and kidney pie to glance at Al. I sighed in exasperation as he hefting his own cutlery. "Really, Al? Are you trying to starve yourself?"

Folding a leaf of lettuce into his mouth, Al glanced at me with an eyebrow raised and spoke in a muffled mumble. "What?"

I gestured to the very minimalistic garden salad before him. "That. It's not got anything of substance to it whatsoever."

"James calls it rabbit food," Al replied idly, taking a sip of butterbeer.

"That is a very apt description for it," I concurred. "Have you considered eating something _other_ that an entire lettuce head for lunch."

"Hey, don't judge my eating habits," Al grumbled, pointing his fork towards me before spearing a sliver of carrot. "Veganism is a lifestyle choice. You should respect it."

"And I do. But that 'rabbit food' can hardly be constituted a meal. It can't be healthy. You're skin and bones as it is anyway, and only getting skinnier."

It was true. I wasn't one to particularly notice such superficial features of, well, anyone, but someone I was familiar with as intimately as I was Al? Yes, I'd noticed he was slight. Noticed also that he'd thinned out further since Christmas and it worried me.

Al shrugged, disregarding my concern. "'S okay. It happens all the time."

I frowned. "What happens?"

"Getting skinny. When I get stressed, or homework piles up or... other stuff." He shrugged again, as though it was hardly more than a trivial fact. "It happens."

I felt my frown deepen further. "That can't be healthy."

"Probably not," Al agreed. "But whatever." He glanced at me sidelong, jabbing his fork towards me once more. "Are you going to partake of that poor cow's leg at some point today, or are you going to waste it?"

There was amusement in his tone, a continued lack of regard for my concern, but I let it pass. Raising an eyebrow, I turned back to my own lunch. "What was all that about respecting dietary choices?"

"I was talking about veganism."

"What, so the flip side doesn't count."

Al shook his head vigorously, offering me a grin around the fork he held to his lips. "It's the right of any vegan, Scor, you should know that; I can judge you for what you eat but don't even _think_ about judging me."

I snorted. "That's a bit of a double standard."

"Vegan prerogative," Al replied with another impish grin. I shook my head, chuckling in my own amusement, and set to tucking into my lunch. Cow's leg or not, it certainly was tasty.

It was as we scraped the last of our plates clean – or, well, as I did, for there wasn't really all that much for Al to scrape – that the thought occurred to me. No, it didn't just occur. It simply niggled loudly enough for me to speak of it. "You lose weight when you get stressed, then?"

Al was still shaking his head and smiling from the identification and joking reference I'd made to Matthias Snarfle's little sister – I can't for the life of me remember her name, but she was certainly making an idiot of herself pretending to be drunk on butterbeer halfway across the room. He glanced towards me at my words, his smile rapidly subduing. "Yeah. It happens."

"It's… it's pretty bad, then?" I was appalling at these kinds of conversations. Awkward didn't even begin to cover it. Still, I felt like I should at least make an attempt. He was my boyfriend, after all, and I did care.

Al shrugged nonchalantly, but the deliberate redirection of his gaze across the room suggested he was anything but. "Sometimes. At the moment?" Another shrug. "Yeah, just some things."

I frowned. Surely I should know about these 'some things'. But then… it couldn't be anything particularly unknown, could it? I would surely be aware of such a catalyst for distress. "Study?"

"Yeah, study and… stuff."

"You're avoiding answering the question."

Al sighed, sending me a hooded half-glare that was faintly accusing. "I'm not 'avoiding answering', it's just… nothing all that huge. I mean, nothing set in stone."

"What's not set in stone?" I was curious now. Concerned if it was concerning Al, but mostly curious. Something I didn't know about? I wasn't going to drop the subject anytime soon.

Al evidently perceived as much, for he met my gaze shrewdly, pursed his lips and huffing an exasperated sigh. "It's silly to be worried about it," he said.

"About?" I persisted. In this instance, I found myself with a sudden well of patience. I could prod him like this all day if I had to.

Running a hand through his hair – it was a nervous tick that I'd glimpsed and never really taken much notice of before except for noticing it – Al sighed again. "It's just… okay, so don't laugh at me, alright?"

"Would I laugh at you?"

Al gave me another half-glare. "I don't know, Scor. You tell me."

A crooked smile settled on my face at the suggestion. "True, you've got me there. Proceed anyway or I won't leave it alone."

Appearing on the verge of scowling at me, Al hesitated a moment more before abruptly speaking. In a spurting flow, the words hastily spilled over the top of one another. "I… I've applied for a couple of universities. Not Wizarding unis or colleges or anything but Muggle unis. Well, not _Muggle_ unis but Dual unis, because it's pretty hard for a witch or wizard to get into a mainstream uni without the foundational knowledge from Muggle secondary education, you know? It's only a couple that I've applied for – you have to apply really early for these things 'cause they're really competitive – and I don't know my chances of getting in or anything, but I'd really, really like to go, and I won't know the results of my applications for another couple of months now but it's still kind of freaking me out a little –"

"Wait. Hold on. Slow down." I held up a hand to stem the flow of word vomit. It was a bit of an information overload and I found myself blinking rapidly in an attempt to process it all. "You applied for at a Muggle University?"

"A Dual University. And several, yes."

"Dual University?"

Al shifted uncomfortably in his seat and wouldn't look me in the eyes. He raked his hand through his hair once more before dropping his fingers to the table top to settle for picking at his fingernails. "They take both wizards and Muggles, teaching both curriculums, though the Muggles don't generally know about the other courses."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm well aware of what a Dual University is, Al."

"Well, you did ask," Al replied petulantly, though his voice was low and subdued.

I sighed. This was what he was feeling nervous about? His applications? Well, I personally wouldn't have seen much point in worrying over a college or university application; after submission, there wasn't an awful lot one could do about it. But I knew Al wasn't the sort of person able to see it as such. He _would_ worry, incessantly, and it would likely be fraying his thoughts. No, I didn't know the nitty gritty details of his anxiety, but I was beginning to realise that it might be a bit deeper, run a little more strongly, than he let on. Than I had realised. Evidently so, as he was nearly writhing in his seat with nervousness that couldn't be entirely because of his confession to me. Though why he felt nervous at all for telling me was unfathomable.

Still, if he was this worried about his applications on top of our current study load that I knew stressed him more than he let on, it was no wonder that things were being a little upset. It was like… like my own situation with Father's business partners and their nagging; just another thing lumped atop the wobbling tower of commitments and demanding concerns.

At the thought, I felt a surge of irritation that was immediately overwhelmed by guilt. An entirely different kind of guilt to that I'd felt throughout the rest of the day. I was annoyed that Al hadn't told me something that worried him so much – I was his boyfriend, wasn't I? Weren't we supposed to let each other about these sort of things? – but more powerful was the guilt that I hadn't been able to offer him support. He'd done enough simply offering his listening ear and steady presence over the past weeks when I'd needed it, which was _exactly_ what I'd needed. Didn't I have the right to offer the same?

Taking a calming breath, I blinked very deliberately at Al. "What universities have you applied for?"

Al raised his eyes to me guardedly. "I… you're not annoyed with me?"

I adopted an expression of mild surprised. "Annoyed? Why would I be annoyed?"

Shrugging, Al went back to picking at his fingernails. "I just thought you might, I don't know, get indignant and all that because I hadn't told you."

I had to take a pause to keep from jumping on the truth of his words and validating them. Another steadying breath – I really had no reason to be annoyed. I didn't. It would pass – and I tilted my head to the side in what I hoped was the expression of an avid listener. "What universities have you applied for?"

Al paused, freezing for a moment as though caught in the lull before the storm hit, before slowly raising his eyes to meet my own. Was he really so worried about my opinion, or was his nervousness at the situation at large just spilling into everything else? I strove to keep my face open and it must have worked to a degree for a sliver of the tension in his shoulders eased and he finally replied.

"I applied for the University of Glasgow and Manchester, and Aberystwyth too, and Edinburgh. Canterbury Christ Church too; it's supposed to have a really good graduate employment rate. I'll probably be applying at the straight Wizarding unis when N.E. finish up."

"That's a… pretty widely flung selection of locale, there," I murmured, swallowing down the lump that had arisen in my throat. Oh. Maybe that was why Al was worried to tell me. Maybe he was worried I'd protest him moving away. I certainly felt the urge to. I cleared my throat, I replied as off-handedly and sarcastically as I felt I usually would. "Just a few, then? Keeping the number down, are we? That's awfully confident of you."

Despite the persistence of the lump half choking me, I knew it was the right thing to say when Al cracked a smile. A little more of that tension fell from his shoulders. "Yeah, well. I want to keep my options open."

"What do you want to study?"

This time, the expression Al turned upon me was pure exasperation. "Really, Scor? Do you even have to ask?"

I forced out a chuckle. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Herbology, then?"

"Botany, actually, or Plant Sciences, though yes, the Wizarding units are grouped under the generalised term Herbology."

"No need to be so condescending."

"I'm not. You're just an idiot," Al replied with a fond smile towards me. It warmed me despite the persisting tightness in my chest.

"What brought this up, then?"

Shrugging, Al reached for his near-empty butterbeer, though he merely fiddled with it rather than drinking. "I've been thinking about it for a while, what I wanted to do when I got out of school and all. There's not a great range of careers in plant studies in the Wizarding world so I figured I'd look further abroad. Maybe try to incorporate Muggle botanical studies into my education."

"Why would you want to learn about Muggle plants?" I couldn't help but ask.

Al shot me a faintly disapproving glance. "Now you just sound prejudiced."

"I didn't mean it like that," I muttered. It wasn't quite a sheepish mumble but it wasn't far off.

"Yeah, you kind of did, Scor. I'm not judging or anything; I know the Wizarding world is on the road to embracing the Muggle one, but there's still a long way to go." He shrugged, the last of the tension falling from his shoulders. "Maybe I can help with that transition a little."

Sitting back in my seat, I regarded Al with new eyes. This… this revelation of sorts, it showed me a whole new side of him, one I'd never beheld before. Al had always been motivated towards studying Herbology; I likened his love of plants to my rapture with potions. It was the sort of passion that spared no room for anything else even close to the same level of interest. It was this similarity between us that had been a key factor in my initial draw to him.

But in contrast to me, who disregarded that passion to pursue a life in the business world amongst the high-class tycoons of the British world, Al was following his dream. More than that, he was building upon it, going so far as to venture into Muggle fields of studies because he was _just that interested._ I sorely admired that, despite the natural condescension I felt towards Muggle academia in general. It was a personality flaw, I knew, but one that I defensively claim was fairly prevalent in Wizarding society still, despite the increasingly blurring boundaries between our worlds.

Al was disregarding those boundaries. More than that, he appeared to be stepping straight over them as though they didn't even exist in the first place.

 _That_ was admirable.

"Have you talked to anyone else about this?" I asked. Because to me, as much as I would like to think I would start headfirst into that which took my fancy, I would never have done so in such a situation concerning my future career and studies.

Al glanced up from his butterbeer bottle once more at my question. He frowned slightly and I quickly rearranged my features to settle at carefully neutral. I didn't know what he'd seen, but if it elicited a frown it could hardly be favourable. He spoke slowly after a pause. "Not really. I mentioned it to Mum and she said to go for it and apply if I felt like it was what I really wanted. I'm still holding out on telling Dad, though." He paused again. "And Rhali."

"Rhali?" I knew I sounded a little indignant but I couldn't help it. Why Rhali and not me?

Nodding, Al took a small sip of his butterbeer. "Yeah, she was the one that brought it up. She's been thinking along the same lines, applying at a Dual uni. She wants to study maths, you know?"

"Oh." I felt slightly mollified. That sounded fair, at least. I didn't feel quite so deliberately left out, as childish as that may seem. "She applied for the same universities as you?"

Al shook his head. "Not hardly. No, she wants to go to Cambridge or Oxford. They've got a great Dual curriculum, and are both pretty strong in Arithmancy. But they're really pretty competitive, from Muggles and magicals. She said she applied to Bristol as well and… St. Andrews I think she said?"

Wow. Rhali too. I never would have guessed. "Huh… I wouldn't have seen her as one to continue studying."

Al smirked. "I know, right?" He seemed more comfortable now, as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Or at least partially. Had he really been so worried about telling me?

We sat for a little longer in the sleepy warmth of the Three Broomsticks, talking quietly of university and the pros and cons of each Al had applied for. I wasn't looking to apply myself, of course, and had never even considered myself inclined towards such a direction, but that didn't mean I wasn't aware of the systems and which establishments held greater prestige. Of course I was. It was something Ito know so I knew it.

Al, surprisingly – or perhaps unsurprisingly, I wasn't sure – had a fairly thorough knowledge of them himself. It seemed he truly had committed himself to the idea since he'd made the decision.

Draining the last of our butterbeers, we finally heaved ourselves to our feet. The lethargy I felt settling heavily upon me was abruptly cast adrift as soon as we stepped outdoors. The wind had dropped, but it was still chilling weather. A glance overhead at the dark, roiling clouds bespoke a storm on the near horizon, possibly even hail.

By unspoken agreement, we headed back along the main road towards Hogwarts. Even revelling in good company as I had been, there was really only so much to do in a village as small and quiet as Hogsmeade. Still, even that small amount I felt had been beneficial. And even with the flooring knowledge that I had so recently acquired, I felt as though it had been a good day all round. Beneficial. Enlightening.

Al evidently felt the same, for a small smile had settled upon his face as he walked and there was a slight bounce in his step that set his arms swinging slightly. I couldn't help but smile at the sight.

"You seem awfully happy."

Al turned towards me, barely pausing to wait for a passer-by before he spoke. "I'm allowed to be, aren't I?"

"Of course. I was only wondering why."

He shrugged, turning away from me again. "I guess I just hadn't expected you to take my announcement quite so well as you have."

I raised an eyebrow towards the back of his head. "Oh really? And why is that?"

Al shrugged again, not even sparing me a glance. "You just seemed the type of person who would get in a huff about a distance relationship or something."

I frowned at his head this time at the suggestion, though I couldn't help a small shudder of relief pass through me at his words. Distance relationship. Well, at least he wasn't under any misguided illusions that we would be breaking anything off just because he was going to university. "Really, Al, are you forgetting you're a wizard? What kind of a hurdle is it to attend a Muggle university when we have Apparation at our fingertips."

This time Al did turn and flash me a smile, allowing me the deliberate 'Muggle' oversight. "Exactly. I'm glad you're seeing things so rationally."

I snorted to cover up the twinge of discomfort I felt. Stupid. It was stupid. My own words were valid enough; even if Al did study in somewhere like Edinburgh – a country away from London in which I would most likely be based at LeFay Connected – it wouldn't matter. Apparation could chew the distance between them in minutes.

It would be alright. It would be. It was selfish of me to think otherwise, and I didn't want to be selfish. Not with Al.

Still, I couldn't help my smile from fading as I followed behind Al up the hill, at least when he wasn't looking at me to see.

* * *

I should have known Al would have anticipated my descent into brooding silence and moodiness. For all that I attempted to put on a brave face, Al knew me far too well, even after such a short period of _knowing_ me.

I'd assumed we'd spend the rest of the day studying. I was _hoping_ we'd do as much; as soon as the castle came into view, I felt an upwelling of the guilt that had been skulking along my peripheral mind all day. It had returned with a vengeance.

Before I could even say a word on the subject, however, Al had fallen back in step beside me and linked his arm through mine. A conniving move on his part, I realised, for as soon as I attempted to lead us – with all due haste – towards the doors of the castle, he dug his heel in and tugged me in a perpendicular direction.

"No way, Scor. Not yet. I'm not finished with you yet." He gave me another tug that, pathetic as his musculature was, actually caused me to stumble in the direction he'd intended. He smirked with a hint of triumph at that.

Frowning, I huffed in exasperation. "I beg you pardon, but I've just shirked my studies for half a day because of you –"

"You enjoyed it. Don't pretend you didn't."

"Regardless! It's still half a day from studies that I've missed –"

"And you'll spend at least another hour with me. Because you love me so much." Al flashed that impish smile that I was so helpless against, and I blame that – and the careless use of the word love – for the reason that I stumbled another few steps after him when he tugged me again.

"Al…" I warned.

"Scor…" Al replied in an identical tone, and in an instant dropped his smile and fixed me with such a serious, intent stare that I felt my complaint dry on my tongue. Damn, how did he manage that? He would have made an awfully good prefect with a look like that. Or a lawyer.

Which was how I found myself – reluctantly but not _really_ reluctantly – being tugged after Al around the grounds of the school. True, the wind had dropped, but it was still bitingly cold and I couldn't help but scowl at Al each time he glanced towards me, at each encouragement he sent my way as though urging a flighty colt to follow his lead. He returned each scowl with either a glaringly bright smile or that solemnly intense expression that brooked no argument. I found myself pathetically helpless against both of them.

What had gotten into me today?

It took me until we were nearly upon the quidditch pitch for me to realise where we were going. I attributed my lack of awareness to the fact that I unconsciously kept myself half turned towards the nearest entrance to the school. I didn't know why I did that; maybe it was the misguided supposition that, in the event that Al released his hold of my arm, I would have an added advantage in flight. Though in all honesty, I doubt I could ever see myself fleeing from Al.

"Al, no."

Al paused in his forward movement to spare me a glance. "Scor, yes."

"Al, I'm not going to spend the afternoon flying –"

"You don't have to spend the _whole_ afternoon flying," Al overrode me. He started forwards once more towards the change rooms. "Just a little while. Give me a couple of hours."

"No –"

"Come on, just a couple of hours."

"You don't even like flying!"

Al paused again at that. The look he gave me wasn't by any means a glare – far from it, in fact – but sufficed to still my tongue nonetheless. "No. I don't really. But you do." His eyes narrowed with intensity once more. "You really do, Scor. And just because you're studying doesn't mean you have to put the rest of your life in the trash, never to be seen again."

"I –" I swallowed down an upwelling of unexpected emotion. It wasn't rational, hardly even felt like my own, but was more a direct response to that which coloured Al's tone. "I'm not throwing it away. It's just… put to the side. For the moment. I'll… I'll fly again. I will."

It was a lie. I knew it as soon as I said it. I couldn't see myself ever really having the time, nor the lack of inhibitions as a public figure, to truly revel in the joy of flight. Certainly not when I was a respectable businessman. And from the flicker of sadness on Al's face, he knew it too. I didn't fight him anymore when he turned and tugged me towards the change rooms once more, nor when he harvested a pair of school brooms and thrust one in my hand.

I moved as though I was in a dream. As though I watched myself from an outsider's perspective and had no control over myself as Al urged me onto the quidditch pitch. My eyes were glued on the polished wood of the old-fashioned _Nimbus_ _2020_ grasped between my fingers and I didn't even realise I'd slung my leg over the broom until I was in the air.

I shouldn't. I wasn't _supposed_ to fly. I should have been studying, or, in failing that, drawing my attention to analysing the texts my father had sent me regarding the inner workings and duties of LeFay. It was complicated enough as it was; there was a reason so many people said they didn't actually know what the business _did_. International relations, purchasing of shares in upstanding companies, supporting investments through generous donations of the excessively wealthy, donations obtained through the use of a silken tongue and sincere promises. I should be learning it all.

Instead I was flying. I was flying, for the first time in months, and I was enjoying it. As I launched through the air, the icy wind licking my face with whiplash intensity drawing tears to my eyes, I revelled in the feeling of weightlessness. The unerring steadiness of the broom beneath me, the reflexive motion of my muscles as they shifted to urge the broom higher, faster. It was all so familiar, so satisfying, that within moments the tears provoked by the painful coldness swum with emotion instead.

Humiliating. It was humiliating, to be so effected by the simple act of flight. But I couldn't bring myself to care in that moment.

As I turned the _Nimbus_ in an arc, curving to the left, I caught sight of Al. He too was astride a broom, drifting lazily. He looked quite comical in the thick coat, scarf and gloves, shrouded heavily against the February chill, but that didn't detract from the grace of his flight. No, admittedly there was no love for flight itself in his motions; he did not have the _need_ to fly, not like I had. The need that I had been thurstnig aside with quivering muscles since I'd first made the resolution to _avoid_ flying. But that didn't mean he didn't fly well. I guess he got it from his mother. Or his father, perhaps; Harry Potter was apparently an exceptional flyer back in the day.

Al must have felt my gaze upon him, for in the midst of a curving arc of his own he turned his eyes towards me. He gave me a smile that I could make out even across the half-pitch distance between us. There was so much affection in that simple smile, a touch of relief, a little satisfaction and, laced throughout it all, understanding. Somehow, without even feeling that same almost insurmountable urge that I did to fly, he understood the struggle I had. And against my own conscious objections, fighting against my innate desire, he had acted upon that understanding. Al was… he was looking out for me in a way that I'd never had someone do for me before.

Merlin, who could ask for a better boyfriend?

As I fell into a sharp dive, dropping swiftly to his side, I reached my own resolution. I would strive my very hardest to be a man worthy of that affection. To offer the same in kind if I could. And if that meant supporting his future studies, even at the risk of him moving away, then I would.

I would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, everyone. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you get a chance, please please please leave a comment. It would be muchly appreciated :)  
> Very special thanks to simon_sj and BigBadBrian for your comments last chapter. They were beautiful xx


	14. I Don't...Understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter may seem a little all over the place and for that I apologise. I attempt to grasp the mentality of someone undergoing a trying situation. Sorry if it's a little all over the place.  
> WARNING: this chapter contains descriptions of drug use that may be confronting to some people. Please be aware of this and tread carefully.

Waking up with a headache had become fairly normal for me of late. It wasn't what I'd call the most welcoming feeling first thing in the morning, but I'd gotten used to it. What was a bit of a rude accompaniment was the pale mug peering at me from barely a handsbreadth away, face blurry as my eyes struggled to assert their dominance over the fogginess of sleep.

Groaning, I pulled away from what several blinks revealed to me as being Ainsley's face. It was the nose that gave him away; I'd heard people suggest that he'd have been better suited to Ravenclaw because of his resemblance to their mascot. Rolling onto my back, I raised a hand to my temple and sighed. "What are you –?"

"It's ten past eight," Ainsley informed me, straightening upright beside my bed.

"You're five minutes early," I mumbled. For a brief moment I resented Ainsley and his punctuality, despite knowing at the same time I should be thanking him for waking me up. It was just… five more minutes of sleep sounded _so tempting…_

"Yeah, well…" I caught the other boy shrugging from the corner of my eye. "Figured early was better than late."

"You figured wrong," I groaned. I closed my eyes for a moment – could I get in a few more minutes? – before sighing once more and heaving myself into sitting. Or almost sitting. It was more of a recline, my propped elbows the only thing keeping my from falling back down onto the far too welcoming mattress.

I was tired. I'd never been a _good_ sleeper, exactly – Mum always said I woke to the sound of a pin dropping when I was a baby, even if I did spent a large amount of my time with my eyes closed nowadays – but lately it had been worse. Not even with a dose of Harproot just before bed could I go through more than an hour or two without waking. The drug had become a compulsive habit lately, one that Rhali, Ozzy and even Scor participated in occasionally too. I wouldn't even consider trying to sleep without it at the moment. I'd just end up lying awake and stressing for hours. This year was doing my head in.

Although, after yesterday's trip to Hogsmeade and then the flying, I felt a little better about things. Something about talking to Scor about my plans made them seem more solid. As though I had a future after seventh year and exams. The fact that he'd seemed so accepting of it, so positive even after his very obvious initial dislike of the idea, had made it even better. I could face the possibility of attending uni with just one less thing to worry about.

The prospect still scared the hell out of me, of course, even with Scor's acceptance. For even with the additional support, there was a wellspring of other concerns that clamoured for attention. What if I didn't get the marks? Dual Universities were reputedly competitive, drawing from two, often far-flung pools of potential students. And more than that, what would Mum have to say about it? She strove to be supportive, and she was generally quite accommodating of Muggles and their lifestyles – a product of the persistence of Auntie Hermione, I suspected – but she still struggled. She was one of those that accepted Muggles' place in the Wizarding world without exactly promoting full immersion in their culture.

Still, even with that stress, it felt good to finally tell Scor. Last night, after we'd descended from the quidditch pitch – we'd stayed out longer than I'd anticipated actually – he'd made a concerted effort to talk about the subject despite his obvious relief at falling back into his books as we secreted ourselves into an unobtrusive corner of the library. He seemed interested in my ideas, of what I wanted for my future; after a while he even went so far as to claim the idea was intriguing, though he could never see it as suitable for himself. It was because he just wasn't inclined towards Muggle studies, he said. No prejudice intended of course, he just found magical studies more… relevant.

I called bullshit, but whatever.

Yawning, I finally managed to awaken myself enough to sit properly upright. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, dropping to the heated wooden floorboards and made my way over to the trunk at the end of my bed. Only to pause as I realised that Ainsley hadn't left the room and he and Dillon were standing motionless beside their beds and staring at me awkwardly. Frowning, I paused, glancing between the two of them questioningly. Another glance towards Xander's bed showed that he watched me too, despite being only on the cusp of wakefulness himself. The four of us were immobilised in a strange depiction of waiting.

It was awkward. I hated situations like this. Confrontations were my archenemy, which was another reason why I simply avoided attention and human interaction as a general rule. Waiting for someone else to speak – likely quite far on the horizon given the very apparent firmness of Ainsley and Dillon's jaws and that Xander was still out of it – would only make it worse.

I cleared my throat. "What, um… what's going on?"

Ainsley and Dillon exchanged a glance. I could tell they were uncomfortable from the way Dillon puckered his lips and blew his blonde fringe out of his eyes and Ainsley tugged at his ear lobe. I fidgeted where I stood, for the first time feeling the inclination to simply _say_ something to break the ensuing silence.

Finally, Ainsley spoke up. "So you're, ah… you're dating Scorpius Malfoy, huh?"

I blinked. What? That's what this was about? They were, what, confronting me about dating Scor? "Yeah…" I replied slowly.

Ainsley and Dillon exchanged another glance. Dillon sniffed, blowing his fringe again. He really should get it cut. "When did… when did that happen?"

Now I was just confused. It had been over a month since we'd been officially 'together'. Before that there had been the moment in the prophet, the Kiss caught on camera. How much more indication did they need? Frowning, I answered anyway. "Since about Christmas."

"But… why?"

Silence. Static silence rung in a reflection of the guilt that flashed across Ainsley and Dillon's faces. They knew how it sounded, how utterly stupid that single word was, and yet neither made an attempt to recall their words.

I was… stunned. What the hell? 'Why'? What did he mean 'why'? What kind of a stupid question was that? I was almost too stunned to reply. What right did they have to even ask me that? _What the actual hell?!_ "Because I… I like him," I stuttered out.

The awkwardness was like a pervasive cloud hanging over the room now. There were decidedly too many people in the one place – too many _acquaintances_ \- for my own comfort. Ainsley and Dillon were nearly squirming in unease. A glance towards Xander showed that even he appeared to be affected by the thrumming tension. Usually more of a zombie than I am in the morning, today he was actually aware enough of his surroundings to have adopted an expression of uneasiness himself. He fiddled nervously with the blanket, blinking owlishly.

I slowly turned back towards Ainsley and Dillon. My voice was choked as I mumbled, "Why would you even ask me that? Why would you…?"

We weren't all that close, the Hufflepuff boys and me. Ainsley and Dillon, they'd been best friends since the early days of first year, and Xander usually hung out with his cousin in Gryffindor. Not me. I'd just never really connected with them. But even so, it wasn't like we actively antagonised one another. We didn't _dis_ like one another. We were just… neutral. Cohabiting. Friendly, but nothing more.

I'd never had a tiff with any of them, and as far as I knew they'd never had a complaint with me either. We keep firmly in our separate businesses, and that worked perfectly fine for me. Which was why the situation, the horribly intrusive question, was so unexpected _._ I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little bit upset. My moderately good humour, the lingering residue from the previous day, was rapidly disappearing. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that dorm room.

Obviously my feelings were making themselves apparent, for Ainsley – after another glance towards Dillon – took what appeared to be a fortifying breath and launched himself right onto the chopping block. "Look, we don't mean to sound like we're prying or anything, it's just… we're a little curious."

"And worried," Dillon added, his tone subdued.

I glanced between the two of them. "What? Why? Why would you be –?"

"Because he's Scorpius Malfoy," Ainsley overrode me, speaking in slow, deliberate syllables as though his words were an actual answer in and of themselves. " _Scorpius. Malfoy._ "

"So?"

"So, you're Albus Potter."

"It's just weird, that you two would get together," Dillon tagged on in his hushed tone once more. I shot him a glance. What was he, Ainsley's bloody yes-man?

Ainsley nodded his head in agreement to Dillon's additive. "The fact that it's _you two_ together. It's just… weird."

"Why?" I was aware that my voice sounded demanding, despite the waver quivering through it. It hurt, this prodding and poking. The accusation in my housemates' tones. Seriously, _what_ the _hell_? "Why is it so weird?"

"Because you're Harry Potter's son," Ainsley said, as though that was explanation enough. Which, perhaps to him, it was. "And Scorpius is Draco Malfoy's son."

"Everyone knows about their past, with the war and before that," Dillon continued.

"And that their two sons are dating… it's just weird."

"Surely even you guys can see it's a strange, right?"

"We're not trying to be mean or anything but, you know, people talk and you've gotta wonder…"

I glanced between the two of them at their rallying exchange. _You've gotta wonder…_ Dad and Mr Malfoy? That was what this was about, their school rivalry? About their opposing sides in the war that followed? That was twenty-five years ago! Who even remembered something like that from so long ago? And _why_ would anyone _care_?

I felt slightly dizzy, thickness beginning to clog my throat, and my fingers and toes setting up a tingle. Sick. I felt starting to feel physically nauseous. "Why are you…?" I shook my head, attempting to rid it of the plethora of questions battering for attention. There were too many; my mind grabbed onto the only one that managed to surface with any coherency. "Why are you just bringing this up now?" I swallowed through the croakiness in my throat. "We've been together for… for weeks. Why…?"

Dillon spoke first this time, wonder of wonders. "Yeah, but no one really thought you were serious."

"The prophet always makes up stories and people lap it up like pigs in slop." Ainsley shrugged at the faintly disgusted glance Dillon flashed him. "I mean, everyone was _curious_ , and it was a great source of gossip I guess, but no one really thought –"

"B-but, it's been _weeks_." I swallowed again through the dryness in my mouth but it only served to make my stomach protest as though suspicious I was attempting to assault it with food. "We've been going out for weeks –"

"You haven't really _done_ anything, though," Ainsley pointed out. As though it was a key fact in the conversation. "We thought it was just a joke, or that it was just, like, a physical thing or something and it would fizzle out."

"Even if it did seem a little strange that _you_ were the one to –" Dillon cut off his mumble, eyes widening as he glanced towards me with his fringe flopping stupidly. "I didn't mean it like that, Al. Sorry, that sounded really harsh, I didn't mean it…"

His babble morphed into a hollow echo in my ears. He didn't mean it like that. How exactly did he mean it, then? I felt like I was being struck by verbal blows. And the worst part was that Ainsley and Dillon, for all of their visible guilt, didn't seem to even realise all that much the very degree of how _hurtful_ their words were. If there was anything that could convince me that the stereotype of 'Hufflepuff' had dwindled over the years it was this.

Dillons bumbling trickled off slowly, fracturing. My gaze was fastened somewhere between my two housemates, locking in an unblinking stare. My throat was tightening so much that I couldn't even swallow anymore.

"Al, we're… we didn't mean –"

"Why now, though?" It wasn't what I really wanted to ask, but the repetition of my previous question was the only one that seemed able to croak from my lips. "Why… why would you… why are you asking _now?_ "

Dillon looked as though he wanted to sink through the floorboards and Ainsley didn't look much better. But at least Ainsley still had the courage to answer me, even if his words were subdued. "You guys, you went to Hogsmeade together. Like, just the two of you." He paused, then said very deliberately, "On a date."

"I think everyone just realised you were sort of more serious after that," Dillon muttered in agreement.

Hogsmeade. Date. They thought… because… that simple trip to Hogsmeade apparently made the reality of Scor's and my relationship starkly apparent. It wasn't even a date! At least, I didn't think it was. Ozzy and Rhali just couldn't be bothered to come along with us.

Were they stupid?

…Did everyone think like that?

Suddenly, I didn't want to talk to my housemates anymore. I didn't want to even look at them. Hated them? No, I didn't hate them. I just wanted to be as far away from them all as humanly possible. Far away from _them_ and as close as possible to Scor as I could be.

I fumbled through the motions of dressing myself. I think Ainsley and Dillon might have continued saying something, tried talking at me, but I didn't hear them. Slipping into my shoes and not even bothering with the laces, I slung my book bag over my shoulder and hastened towards the door, chin tucked and head bowed. Xander, still half wrapped in his blankets, uttered a feeble, "Al…" as I passed, but I didn't pause to reply. I couldn't even spare him a glance. The door slammed shut with more force than I'd anticipated as I hastened from the dormitory.

I thought there were people in the common room. And I thought they might have been looking at me, maybe even talking about me. I couldn't say for sure though. My dizziness was making my vision go a bit fuzzy. My breath was starting to come short, and it was all I could do to stumble through the Basement and into the corridor beyond. I didn't want to be around them, didn't want to be around any of my housemates. I wanted Rhali, or Ozzy, or even Lily or Rose.

I wanted Scor.

Any of them would have done, would have been a comfort to simple be with, to sit beside me silently as I rode out the nausea and anxiety that welled within me. I didn't need to talk. I just wanted someone with me. Any of them, but especially Scor. For some reason, in my mind it was Scor that would make it all better.

I didn't know quite how I made it to the Great Hall. I didn't even realise I'd arrived until I quite literally ran into someone just inside the doorway. A Slytherin girl with blonde hair, an oddly calm and detached part of my mind registered.

The girl turned towards me with big dark eyes and blinked. She didn't say anything, just blinked. And in a moment of mounting foreboding, I realised what it was that was on her face. Realised and recognised, because it had been on Ainsley and Dillon's faces too.

On the faces of the scattering of students around the hall, some half-turned in their seats to peer at me with eyes that were curious, thoughtful, resentful. Betrayed. Really, betrayed? What did they have to feel _betrayed_ about? I hadn't done anything wrong. Was this really about me and Scor? Me and Scor, in a relationship that we'd been in for a whole month now. A relationship that barely batted an eyelid except on those first few days that Scor had sat next to me at breakfast.

There was an awkward hush settling over the Great Hall. Awkward because of the fidgeting in seats that accompanied it, the ducking of chins after eyes drunk their fill of their staring. There were some people – some blessed angels – who honestly didn't seem to care, who glanced up at me with exasperation and sympathy cast upon their faces, but they were far outweighed by the majority. Even some of the teachers present wore those intensely penetrating stares.

Over my relationship with Scor. _My_ relationship. Seriously?

Except… except that as my stunned gaze swept around the room, I realised that wasn't it. Or at least, that wasn't it entirely. I should have run, should have turned tail and retreated from the Great Hall to harvest food from the kitchens instead. It was one of the main reasons we Hufflepuffs claimed that our common room was situated where it is; all of us knew its whereabouts.

How I wished I'd just fled.

But as I stood just inside the doorway barely a foot from the staring Slytherin girl, feeling my shoulders hunch more and more with each passing second, I caught sight of it. Of them. And I felt my stomach drop to my feet.

There was a smattering of Daily Prophets propped open in various onlooker's hands. The front page, from what I could make out, depicted an image of Tony Goldstein, Minister for Education, rambling about something or other. But what was on the page most were turned to, the page that lay spread upon the Ravenclaw table just to my right, was a picture of… me.

Little me. Baby me, at about eight years old. It was a picture I was familiar with because Mum thought it was cute, even if it did get into the papers for all the wrong reasons. It was on our visit to the Botannical gardens, and I was crouched on my knees, picking through a variety of blossoming flowers with an expression of sheer rapture on my face. A streak of dirt smudged across one cheek, though less than that which grimed my bare feet. The incident, a fairly low-key family picnic, had caused a raucous grumble of dissatisfaction from the public about the level of care my parents offered. About their supposed 'neglect'. All because I'd vehemently declined following the cliché of wearing shoes that day.

I hated that picture, but that hate was revamped with an all-new meaning now. For it now sat beneath a bold headline of 'MUGGLE FEVER: GRIPPED BY THE TREND', and the smaller subheading 'How will the Potter family react to the idea of their second eldest attending a Muggle University? Does disappointment sit upon the horizon?'

I couldn't stop staring. I couldn't even blink away from that picture, that headline, the blackly printed word 'disappointment' that seemed to jeer at me with an audible ring in my ears. Muggle University? No, I… I wasn't going to a Muggle uni. It was a Dual University, for starters, and… and…

_This_ was what raised their hackles? People… someone cared enough about me – or more correctly about Albus Potter, the son of Harry Potter – to think this was newsworthy? And more than that, other people were….what, resentful towards me for it? How did the papers even find out about my plans?!

My blurring gaze raised from the paper spread across the table to flicker around at the eyes still trained upon me. For once I wished I had my dad's poor eyesight, just so I didn't have to see their faces, to read their expressions. Yes, resentment was still there, and curiosity.

And disappointment. As though I'd done a terrible wrong.

So much for the anti-Muggle-prejudice movement. It was simply _intolerable_ that I, son of Wizarding icon Harry Potter, should even consider attending a Muggle uni. Of course it was. Because for god knew what reason, people cared.

I knew it was stupid. Everything up to and including that very second of my Monday morning was stupid. My housemates objected to my relationship with Scor because it was weird for a Potter and a Malfoy to date. And the world objected to my attending a Muggle university – a _Dual_ university because, as far as I could make out from the words 'lost' and 'black sheep' and 'cast adrift from the proper path' that I'd glimpsed in the article's text, it wasn't acceptable for an upstanding wizard to meddle in such affairs.

What the… why… why the hell did they even have to use that picture?!

It was at that frantic thought – that random and absolutely irrelevant thought that just seemed so pivotal, as though it _had_ to be answered – that made me realise in a detached kind of way: panic attack. I always grew irrational when panic was on the horizon. Funny, that; I knew they were illogical, but the questions still freaked me out.

I had to get out of there.

Someone called my name. A girl – I think it might have been Lily. I didn't pause to check. My breath, already shortened by my flight from my morning's confrontation, was nearly panting. I must have looked ridiculous. I must have. I didn't care, and cared too much.

Spinning in step, I tore from the Great Hall. A soft thump on the floor behind me was the only thing that alerted me to the fact that I'd dropped my bag. Dropped it, and didn't care. GET OUT was the only thought that crossed my mind with any coherence and I tripped through the Entrance Hall. It was the only thought that occurred to me when I stumbled into Ozzy – Ozzy, my friend Ozzy – before I pushed away from him and launched myself down the nearest corridor.

I was running. That's how frantic I was. _I_ was _running_. I didn't run. I never ran. But panic drove me, giving wings to my racing feet, so that even Ozzy, calls and all, faded rapidly in my wake.

I didn't know where I was headed, didn't realise I'd even picked a direction, until I stumbled into the corridor the Basement was secreted along. It took me five tries to bang out the drumming tune on the barrels and gain entrance, and when I did I nearly tumbled into the common room.

There were still people there. Still housemates, now anonymous onlookers with judgmental stares. I could have sunken into the carpeted floor. Illogical, I knew it was illogical to think that way, but they _resented_ me. I could _feel_ the disappointment – what right did they have to be disappointed?! – and wished for nothing but to curl into a quivering ball of shame.

Shame.

I'd disappointed people.

I'm not _supposed_ to go to Muggle University. A Dual University. That was for _other_ people.

My dormitory, blessedly, was empty. Not even Xander remained, though my passing glance, half-crazed and barely seeing, noticed distantly that the cocoon of his seat still remained in the jumbled folds of his blankets. Slamming the door behind me, my legs gave out and I sunk to the floor on the spot. The hardness of the wood on my spine jabbed me painfully, roughly; the solidity, though, it felt good.

My vision was wavering in and out of focus. Truthfully, I was surprised it had lasted as long as it did. My face felt flushed, too hot to touch, and I didn't need to look at my hands to know they trembled. I could hear my pants loudly in my ears, contesting with the heavy thumping of my heartbeat for prime position as 'most prominent bodily noises'. With desperation, I fought to gain control of my body once more. Deep breaths. Deep breath in, and out. And in. And out.

It took a long, long time of what was likely only a few minutes. Slowly, oh so gradually, the pounding in my ears faded from its persisted drumming. My dizziness was gradually replaced by a throbbing heat just the wrong side of my temples. It caused the light to pierce my eyes painfully when I finally blinked the darkness from my eyes.

Empty. Yes, the room was definitely empty. Thank God for small mercies.

My breaths still came heavily, but at least I was actually _breathing_ now. Breathing and exhausted. How such a brief period of racing adrenaline, of searing panic and debilitating anxiety, could be so wearying was beyond me. I doubted it had been more than ten minutes since I'd fled the Great Hall. Ten minutes since I'd been the subject of intense stares, of the unjust opinions of over half of the school. Less than that since I'd stumbled past my own housemates once more and bodily fallen into the seventh year boys dormitory.

At least they'd left me alone. I wanted to be alone. Really wanted it. I didn't think I even wanted to see Scor anymore. With half a mind, my fingers shaking, I reached up above me and flicked the lock of the door. A pointless gesture, what with _Alohamora_ and all, but at least it would act as a suggestion to any potential intruders to 'Keep Out'. And hopefully they would abide by that suggestion, even if they seemed to cross most every other boundary in existence.

Exhausted from that single motion, I slid further down in my floor-seat until only my head was propped awkwardly against the door. It was uncomfortable, but I wasn't inclined to move. Moping, some would call it. Whatever; let me mope. The aftermath of my panic attack, the ensuing weariness, all of it, left me in a state of deep, swirling melancholy.

They cared. Apparently just about everyone cared. How the world had heard about my future plans was beyond me – had someone overheard me speaking to Scor yesterday? – but it hardly mattered anymore. The fact of the matter was that _someone_ cared enough to make a scene of everything. Like they had a say in the matter. Like my future choices, and what I did with _my_ life, should effect anyone, adversely or otherwise.

It shouldn't. They were mine. My relationship, my studies, my career. Everyone else should just butt out. But they wouldn't. No, it seemed like they physically _couldn't_. Not with the Potter family.

Not for the first time, I loathed the fact that I was Harry Potter's son. Not the son of my dad, but of the Once-Saviour of the Wizarding world. Everyone preached that this generation was one of free choices and whatnot. That the lines of clichés and stereotypes were blurring as they never had before. That people could choose for themselves what they made of their lives. And that no one would say a word on the matter.

Such was not, apparently, the reality for some of us. Not for me. Not for Scor either, as it would seem; he didn't truly want to work at LeFay, I knew that now. Not for James and not for Lily, though as chance would have it – or perhaps upbringing and the unconscious weight of expectation with its silent demands – they'd both fallen to deciding to pursue quidditch and Law Enforcement respectively. We weren't allowed to do otherwise, not really. Not us. There were Expectations.

And suddenly, it all seemed too much. Far too demanding and just… too much. Melancholy was one word for it. Writhing in resentment for the world and hating everyone in it is another. I didn't really hate everyone… except that right _now_ I did. People, stupid people. They could all just bugger off.

From my seat half sprawled on the floor, I stared blankly out across the dormitory. The world looks different on a lower level; I could see all the way under the beds. Dillon had a stash of wizard crackers – I thought they were my Uncle George's brand, actually – buried behind a stack of books and half-opened boxes. Ainsley's was littered with sweet wrappers – he had a sweet tooth – and under Xander's… I didn't even want to know what was under Xander's – his was the messiest by far. And mine…

Right beside my bed, alongside the foot of Caesar's cage – the parrot himself watched me curiously, but didn't speak – was my Harproot. My blessed, beloved Harproot, the mottled little plant that had helped me through so much already and continued to every day. Plants – they were far more dependable than people. They didn't care about what you did and didn't do, so long as they were provided with adequate nutrients and sufficient sunlight to grow. So undemanding. It was one of the main reasons I liked them so much.

Liked them a great deal more, in general, than people.

There was a thump on the door above my head. It could have been a knock, but I wasn't sure. Yeah, it must have been a knock, for a muffled voice followed it with something that sounded like a query. I ignored it. Instead, I heaved myself onto my side, then to my hands and knees, and made my slow, arduous way across the room towards the Harproot. Standing just seemed far too difficult right now.

I shouldn't use it in the morning. I really shouldn't, not something that has such calming effects that had the potential to induce sleep. An even more likely effect with the dependency I had on it of late. I'd likely sleep through most of my classes for the day, which would be… bad.

Except that a moment later I'd decided to skip class. Seventh year? Who cared. _I_ didn't care, not right now. Right now, I just wanted to shake the residue of my panic attack, to sink into weightless abandon and _not care_ anymore. I plucked a dry leaf from the stem and folded it in my fingers, releasing a faint hint of the scent that was so familiar to me. An instant later, the little leaf was smoking merrily on my bedside table, a thin line of blue-white Ice Fyre sparked from the tip of my wand fading rapidly in brightness to a dim white-blue glow. The musky wafting of the Harproot threaded through the air.

I couldn't even bring myself to feel guilty about using it in the dormitory. I couldn't care less if I got caught.

Barely a minute it took of sitting immobile on the floor beside my bed, inhaling the aroma of the drug, for me to begin to feel its effects. And barely a minute it took for me to reach the conclusion that it wasn't enough. Calming it may be, but I wanted more than that. Melancholy was not as familiar to me as anxiety, and I hated it all the more for its novelty.

Something else. Maybe something else…

Scooting sluggishly to the trunk propped at the end of my bed, I fumbled to flip open the lid. Happy Gum. That's what I wanted. Give me some of my Gum and I was sure I'd feel better. Mixing drugs, yeah, probably not the best idea, but they were mine and even though it was a weird mash-up of emotions, the effects aren't exactly detrimental. I'd used both together before.

To the sound of another knock, another query mumbled through the thick oak door of the dormitory, I dug my hands into the depths of my trunk in search of Gum. Hopefully there'd be a strip here somewhere. Hopefully. I'd moved my sprout to the greenhouse for some extra sunlight as it was starting to get a little careworn. Still, I should have something in here. Something…

What my fingers found wasn't Gum. It took me a moment of confused staring at the little packet of waxed brown paper before it actually came to me. What had the kid called them? Forget-Me-Nows? That stoner kid, the friend of the Scarmander brothers… A weirdo, but a nice enough fellow for all that. I'd meant to flush them ages ago, but just never got around to it. And now…

Forget-Me-Nows. I'd never tried them before, but forgetfulness? Even if only temporarily? It sounded awfully tempting.

I didn't pause to think about it. I couldn't be arsed looking for the Gum anymore. My mind jumped upon the idea of forgetfulness and I couldn't shake it. A brief respite from the staring gazes that morphed into resentment and finally into a projected disgust at the forefront of my mind. Forgetting that would be… The prospect was enough for me to overlook my number one golden rule of using: only use my own stuff.

But it was just this once. Just the once.

I heaved myself onto my bed in a shambling scramble and flopped onto the quilt as my fingers plucked the package open. Pills, these ones. How cliché. Small, too; I wouldn't even need to drink water to swallow them.

Turning my head onto the pillow, I slipped one of the two between my teeth. It was a placebo effect, I knew, but I could swear that as I swallowed and closed my eyes, those glaring faces were already becoming a little more distant. I drifted off into deliberate sleep to the sound of persistent knocking thudding onto the door of my dormitory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you liked the chapter. Sorry but not sorry for the cliffie :D  
> A big thank you to my lovely commenters from last chapter!! Thank you so much! If anyone has a second, please take a moment to leave a review. I really appreciate it xx


	15. I Sense A Tragedy

I credited the insinuation that Monday was the worst day of the week. I used to think it was because of the whiplash of immersion in work after a brief respite. Now, I happened to suspect it had foreshadowing effects. Or perhaps fate simply planned all hell to break loose specifically on Mondays?

Sitting at the Ravenclaw table in my usual seat of study, I was already scowling. I should have been happy; there was still a faint buzz within me from the events of yesterday, even with the overhanging cloud of Al's university intentions thrown into the mix. But that buzz was stamped out maliciously by a single essay. My Potions essay, to be precise. The one spread before me on the table. Potions always had such an effect upon me; either it aroused a jovial high, or succeeded in markedly dimming my day for the sheer redundancy of studying that which I felt most passionate about. Today it was certainly the latter.

It probably didn't help that I'd slept appallingly the previous night and I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. Typical, that I would get a migraine when the day had already started off _so_ fabulously. I was basically living off the potions to keep them at bay at present. There would be no way I'd manage to wade through the increasingly heavy attentions of my father's business associates and my own studies otherwise.

So my mood was already dark to say the least. That gloominess was only exacerbated by the sidelong stares that my fellow students were giving me. I knew exactly what they were about. Winona had informed me late last night just before turning in to bed about the development on that front. Curious? Indignant? The students – and some of the professors – needed to learn to but out of the business of others. So they had even more of an opinion about Al's and my relationship, did they?

Well, negative publicity was something the Malfoy family was not unfamiliar with. True, we hadn't been subjected to anything openly incriminating in years – with Father as CEO of LeFay Connected, not to mention a prominent Director, people hardly dared – but I was indeed familiar with it. So, while it angered me, and likely contributed to my disgruntled mood, it was not overly trying.

No, what really pushed me over the edge was what came with the _Daily Prophet_. Eight o'clock on the dot, as always, a flurry of owls from tawny to white, black to grey, flooded the Hall and descended with their mail. I received two – from Lord Bernardo Hummington and Ms Eleanor Marsbury today. I'd never met either of them before – and that too contributed to my mood. A brief, chance glance at Zachariah sitting next to me, however, a glance at the page he was reading and the picture of a younger yet no less familiar finger in the very centre, and my mood plummeted exponentially.

Zachariah gave a squawk of indignation when I yanked the paper from his hands. I must have looked murderous, however, for he didn't object further. Not that I would have cared. In that moment, I had attention only for the article in my hands, to the exclusion of all else. Even my essay seemed utterly trivial.

_MUGGLE FEVER: GRIPPED BY THE TREND_

_It is commonly acknowledged that Muggle-Wizarding interrelations are at an all time high. With scores of witches and wizards moving to embrace the Muggle way of life, we see some of our most prominent idols and rising stars partaking of the non-magical world._

_But how far is too far?_

_Black sheep of the family, Albus Severus Potter, may have just taken that extra step past the limit. The son of world Saviour and defeater of the Dark Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter, Albus has always been an oddity. Perceived by many as being a disappointment to his parents and his family name, Albus has repeatedly sought to ostracise himself from his fellows. A classmate describes him as "quiet and reserved, he doesn't really speak much to anybody". But has this lost boy perhaps fallen beyond the bounds of what is deemed acceptable for the up and coming generation of young wizards?_

_Tips from an anonymous source claim that Albus Potter may have taken to embracing the Muggle world just a little too profoundly. Never one to participate in extra curricular sports as his older brother James Sirius, nor to excel in his school studies like younger sister Lily Luna, Albus appears to have committed himself to pursuing distinctly un-Wizarding preoccupations. Latest sources suggests that Albus may even be drifting towards a career in the Muggle world; our source describes the enthusiasm of the second eldest Potter when describing to friends of his plans for attending an as of yet unidentified Muggle University, with intentions to undertake botanical studies. What this means for the general public, for the young witches and wizards who still perceive the Potter family as the role models for society is yet to be determined._

_The discovery of such an abnormality in Albus' character seems to have taken a turn for the demonstrative in his seventh year. Only a month ago, numerous sources describe a blossoming romance with Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy…_

I stopped reading after that. Not because I wanted to but because I was seeing red and it actually became painful to squint at the text any longer. This was bad. Bad was such an inadequate word, but bad? Yes, it was certainly _a_ word to describe the situation. Bad, and heinous, and infuriating. Disgusting.

How dare they!

I'd never been one to get affronted on another's behalf before. Not for my peers, anyway. I had enough affront for the persistent individuals that still disdained the Malfoy name, holding fast to their prejudices like a lifeline. So it was a bit of a novel feeling to be so enraged for someone else. I couldn't say I was even terribly upset about seeing my own name tarnished in the papers for the second time in as many months.

But enraged I certainly was. _Black Sheep… Oddity… Role Model_ … The words replayed through my mind over and over again. Role model? Who, exactly, if not the faceless editors and journalists, tagged Al as a role model? Certainly not Al himself. I knew for a fact that he would _always_ do his utmost to detach himself from the public and their image of him, in both a conscious and unconscious way. Really, he didn't _want_ people to acknowledge him. Was it so hard for them to simply leave him alone?

I didn't know how long I sat there glaring at the paper in my hands without reading. I likely would have continued to do so, too, had not a feather-light touch to my shoulder drawn me from my seething contemplation. Turning with deliberate slowness towards the source of the touch, glaring over my shoulder. And felt my fury nearly drown beneath a wave of surprise and confusion.

Rhali. Rhali had approached me. She'd _touched my shoulder_. And apparently it was entirely of her own choice. The dark haired girl was sending dagger-like glares of her own towards the whispering students around her – because _of course_ they were whispering. They had a fellow classmate in the paper! – before dragging her attention back to me.

And she spoke. That was perhaps the most startling part of all. "Scor, we need to go see Ally."

I frowned, confused. "What –?"

"Ally doesn't deal with things like this very well. At all. And after what everyone's been like since yesterday, too?" Rhali's voice was so low and quiet it was barely audible, but there was intensity in her tone that drove away any dismissiveness that I might have felt. Which I didn't. "You know he freaks out about things sometimes, yeah?"

I nodded slowly, feeling an upwelling of anger rise within me once more. "Yeah. When we were in the papers in the Christmas break…"

Rhali nodded. "Yeah. That. Doesn't deal well. At all. I'm going to try and head him off before he gets to the Hall."

She said nothing further. That was all, and it was so Rhali, so _typically_ Rhali, that she had barely turned and begun hastening with her usual shadowy, unobtrusive steps towards the door when I was on my feet and following her. We nearly ran side by side from the Great Hall.

"You know the way to the Hufflepuff Basement?" Rhali asked, tossing me a glance as we headed down the right hand hallway leading from the Entrance Hall.

I nodded. "All prefects know."

"Do you know the fastest way?"

I frowned, glancing towards Rhali yet not slowing my step. "Houses always keep the fastest routes to their own common rooms a secret. Everybody knows that."

Sending me a scathing glance, Rhali nodded. "Yeah, I know." Her voice was disgruntled, bordering on irate. "It was just a hope."

"We'll just have to get there before he comes out, then."

"Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Mr Prefect," Rhali grumbled. She did pick up her pace, however.

We made short work of the trip to the Hufflepuff common room. I was sure it wasn't the shortest route, but we were fast all the same. Rhali even suggested a shortcut that I hadn't considered before; I didn't pause to think how _she_ knew the way. Of course she would; Al would have undoubtedly told her himself.

It was hardly of consequence, however. My fury had declined marginally on the trip and now seethed somewhere around extreme aggravation. It was, however, almost completely overwhelmed by an all-consuming determination. Get to Al, make sure he doesn't see the Prophet, and if he does make sure he doesn't freak out. Simple enough. Simple. Right.

A first year was just clambering his way out of the Basement when Rhali and I skidded to a halt before the barrels. The boy paused mid climb, an expression of alarm quickly fading to affront as he shifting his gaze back and forth between us. "Hey, you're not supposed to know where –"

"Shut up, kid, or I'll kick you so hard in the bollocks you'll taste yourself this time next year," Rhali growled. She sounded sincere enough that the boy silenced, paled, and swallowed nervously. I didn't feel much compassion for him, to be truthful. My mind was only focused upon one thing in particular. Rhali continued before I could have spoken anyway. "Is Ally still in there?"

"Ally?"

"Albus Potter," I clarified, because the wordless grumble that ensued from Rhali's mouth suggested she was incapable of doing so herself.

The boy's face cleared for a moment before clouding once more. His expression became wary, and something else I couldn't identify flashed briefly across his face. Something… dubious? "Oh, him. Yeah, no, he just left a couple of minutes ago."

"Bugger!" Rhali exclaimed, causing the Hufflepuff boy to nearly jump from his skin. I was surprised he didn't tumble backwards into the barrel from whence he'd come. "Alright, you little tosser, I'll let you go this time but just because I've gotta go."

I blinked at the back of Rhali's head in bemusement for a few moments– was that threat really warranted? Did it even make sense? – before actually registering that she had turned tail and was racing back the way she'd come. I had to admire her dedication, even if I felt much the same for Al myself; Rhali loved her friend and was sorely worried for him. I paused only to nod my head in tokenistic gratitude to the still-pale Hufflepuff boy before hastening after her once more. I felt a common theme that morning, what with me chasing after Rhali for the second time in ten minutes. I batted the thought away as irrelevant, though. Focus on Al. Al needed me – us – and Merlin we needed to catch him before he got to the Great Hall. I felt a clench of worry tighten my gut at the thought of us being too late and didn't complain when Rhali sped our steps to a run.

We didn't make it all the way. Nearly, but not quite. It was a benefit for once that I was following _behind_ Rhali, for when she swung at full speed around a corner and collided into an oncoming fellow student it was they who tumbled in a heap to the ground. I had to dance and stumble to the side to avoid tripping over their flailing limbs, but managed to retain my feet. It was a near thing.

"Ozzy!"

At Rhali's exclamation, the struggling ceased. With remarkable speed that left me wondering if such collisions happened often, Rhali and Ozzy managed to untangle themselves from one another. They were on their feet again an instant. There was no pause for greeting, no exchange of pleasantries. I felt like an audience member to a well-practiced show as they both immediately launched into drilling one another.

"Have you seen Al?"

Ozzy nodded, his jaw tightening and a frown settling heavily on his features. "He was in the Great Hall."

"Was?"

"Gone now. He took off after seeing the Prophet."

"You didn't try to stop him?"

"Of course I did! What do you take me for, Rhali? But he was bad, real bad. We've gotta –"

"Did he head back to the Hufflepuff common room?"

My eyes darted between the pair of them, watching the volley of words like a sports enthusiast focused on the batted ball. My agitation didn't even have time to voice itself they were so efficient.

Ozzy shrugged. "Dunno. I assume so. He just took off as soon as he came out of the Great Hall. I was looking for him this morning before breakfast but –"

"What, and you didn't catch him? Fucking hell, Ozzy, you're supposed to be the runner of the three of us!"

"Since when!"

"Since you've been bloody well practicing for the last half a year is when! What the hell do you even practice for if you don't actually use those blasted legs of yours? And Al's such a twig of a thing, no bloody muscle on him. Are you honestly telling me you couldn't catch up to him?"

"He caught me off-guard!"

And just like that, their efficiency splintered into fragments.

I couldn't blame them. Not really. They were both so obviously worried for their friend, for Al, and their feelings of helplessness appeared to be getting in the way of their practicality. Nonetheless, that agitation that had been withheld as a thrumming tension suddenly erupted in torrents.

"- knew you were just pretending. You probably go down to the lake for a sleep in the afternoons –"

"Yeah, sure, Rhali. And in the mornings, too? I get up at the crack of dawn to go down to the lake for a snooze? Really?"

"I wouldn't put it past you! You're an idiot, so –"

" _I'm_ the idiot? What have you been doing all morning, Rhali?"

"Obviously more than you! At least I went to the Hufflepuff Basement –"

"And a great lot of good that obviously did –"

"Shut your _face_ , Ozzy –"

" _Stop_!"

My voice rung commandingly throughout the corridor, rebounding off the walls as though I'd amplified it with a charm. I hadn't, but I was frustrated and worried enough for anger to give heat and volume to my words. I was worried about Al, that worry building in my chest with every passing moment we wasted. I was known for having a prefect's voice, and in this instance it was put to good use..

I'd anticipated having to make numerous attempts to cut through Rhali and Ozzy's ranting, but they both snapped their jaws shut and whipped their heads towards me in an instant. Granted, Rhali gave me a glare that nearly curdled my blood and Ozzy's was little better, but at least I had their attention. And I had no qualms about glaring straight back at them. "Don't you think we have more important things to be doing right now than arguing? Like finding Al?"

And just like that, the anger drained from the both of them. Worry immediately sprung in its place. I almost regretted the change – they looked heartbroken, the pair of them. Almost as concerned as I felt. Almost, but not quite. At least now they were ready to take proper action.

Ozzy nodded curtly. "Right. Yeah, right. Come on, let's go." He nodded decisively to the two of us, as if he even needed to suggest it. Without another word, we turned back the way we'd come and raced back towards the Basement.

There's a reason the Hufflepuff common room is 'supposedly' the only one that hasn't been infiltrated in all the history of Hogwarts. The password, from what I could glean, was entirely removed from the systems that are used for the other common rooms. Something about a rhythmic drumming on the barrels. I'd heard by word of mouth that attempted infiltrators inevitably ended up with a face-full of vinegar and a forceful ejection from the passageway.

Still, it wasn't exactly a mystery _where_ it was. And, had any of the three of us had any further suspicions, the trio of fourth year girls that were clambering from the barrel heap were a bit of a giveaway. They all froze when they saw us approach, frowns immediately settling upon their faces. At least they didn't attempt to reprimand us like the first year had, though; they weren't quite so oblivious as to hold credibility in the secrecy of common room location. Still, it was considered a bit rude to act upon such general knowledge.

I didn't much care for etiquette that morning, however. Slowing to a jog and finally stopping before the girls, all of whom were folding their arms in identical poses of dissatisfaction, I drew upon my prefect status and asserted my dominance. "You. Have you seen Albus Potter come by here?"

In unison, the three girls glanced towards one another. Their eyes took on that same wariness the first year's had adopted. It worried me as much as it vexed me. The middle girl, a slip of a thing with twin black braids, pursed her lips before replying. "And what if we have?"

Yes, they were disgruntled at our approach. I couldn't care less about that either, though. They'd tell me, or I'd make them tell me. Chilling my voice, I slowly folded my own arms across my chest, infinitesimally straightening my back to give myself an impression of looming. It was an art I'd perfected long ago, when I'd realised my height, while tall, was not quite tall enough to successfully intimidate _everyone_ who approached me. I knew without doubt that I could even make the beanpole Ozzy feel diminutive with my display. I'd worked with more arrogant minds than his before and met little enough resistance.

"This is a matter of extreme importance. You will go into your common room and request that Albus come out to meet us this instant."

The girls exchanged another glance. The wariness was still there, but there was also a distinctive tinge of cowing in their demeanour. My looming always did work a treat. It was the girl on the right, a plump brunette with thin lips that spoke up this time. "We can't do that."

"Oh yes you will," Rhali growled. Her tone was impressively intimidating in itself, and the girls cringed further. "Because if you don't, I'll –"

"Rhali," Ozzy interrupted. I caught a glimpse of his restraining hand upon her arm, and worried for a moment that she was actually going to launch herself at the Hufflepuff girls. Only for a moment, however, before I turned my full attention back upon them. "I'm only going to ask this one more time. Go and tell Albus –"

"We can't," the braid girl spoke up once more. She wrung her hands nervously in sudden distress. "It's not that we don't want to. It's just that we can't."

"Why not?"

The third girl, the shortest of the lot, evidently felt a need to contribute. "He won't let us."

"What do you mean?" Rhali demanded. I could see her scowling without having to glance over my shoulder.

"He came running into the room a couple of minutes ago and locked himself in the seventh year boys dormitory." The braid girl said. "There's a whole bunch of seventh years knocking, trying to get him to open up, but he won't. Not even when Grettle asked him –"

"Grettle's here?" I asked, blessing the fates that the seventh year prefect was already inside. This could work. "Would you go and get her for me?"

"Well, no," the short girl said slowly, as though she were talking to a child. Precocious little chit. Anger and frustration rising, I immediately turned a glare upon her that caused her to shrink. Or maybe that was Rhali's glare; from my periphery I could see that the girl looked ready to chew nails. The fourth year scuffed a foot uneasily, glancing sidelong at her friends. "S-she's trying to get him to open the door…"

"Then go and ask her –"

"What's going on here?"

Oh, thank Merlin! I glanced over the shoulders of the three girls at the interruption, spying the blonde head of Dillon Anderson poking its way through the barrel entrance of the Basement. The seventh year prefect wasn't all that bright but he was generally good-natured. Great for inter-house competition, but he knew when to switch such competitiveness off at the end of a game.

I immediately disregarded the fourth years and turned my full attention upon Dillon. "Have you talked to Al yet?"

A strange expression crossed Dillon's face and he immediately dropped his chin, giving undue attention to the act of clambering into the hallway. I'd caught a glimpse it however. It looked like… guilt? When he lifted his eyes to me once more, however, only wariness settled on his features. What was that all about? All of the Hufflepuffs appeared to be nervously walking on eggshells. It only added to my regrowing anger. "No, we haven't. He won't open the door to the dorm."

"You haven't just opened it yourself?" Ozzy asked, his voice worried and slightly incredulous.

Dillon shook his head firmly, frowning. "No, of course not. That would be… if someone wants privacy, you don't just barge in on them. He _locked_ the _door_."

"Oh, well, that explains everything," Rhali said sarcastically. A glance her way caught the tail end of an eye roll before she was back to glaring at the Hufflepuff prefect. "You don't think the fact that he's locked himself in the dormitory may be cause for concern?"

"Of course it is," Dillon mumbled, and I caught a flash of that same guilt flickering across his face once more. "But his privacy…"

"Have you managed to talk to him at all?" I asked. We were getting nowhere, and I didn't like the thought of leaving Al alone. Ozzy had mentioned, however briefly and in passing, the panic attack Al had fallen prey to after the last newspaper article. Well, he hadn't said it was the _article_ exactly, and I had my doubts given the simultaneous issue that had arisen, but still. I didn't want to leave Al alone for any longer than I absolutely had to. He was remarkably blasé about most things, but I knew he needed support sometimes. And he'd offered more than enough of that to me over the past few weeks. Now it was my turn.

Dillon shook his head. "No. Grettle's trying –"

"Yeah, the girls said," Ozzy interjected redundantly.

"- but nothing yet. We'll keep trying."

"You don't think that _maybe_ you should just unlock the bloody door?" Rhali growled. She'd taken a step towards Dillon, and I didn't know if it was her usual unkempt appearance or the _un_ usual gleam in her eyes but she looked slightly manic. I couldn't blame Dillon for shrinking away from her slightly.

"It's rude," Dillon replied, though the flush to his cheeks indicated he too heard how ridiculous he sounded. "It's intrusive."

"What did you do?"

All of us, Rhali, Dillon, myself and the three fourth years now standing to the side and watching the proceedings as though it were a stage show, turned towards Ozzy at his words. He was frowning, though in something bordering on anger. A slow, building anger that I'd never seen in him before. And again, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a guilty cringe from Dillon. _What does Ozzy suspect…?_

I didn't give Dillon the chance to speak again. Striving for my most commanding voice, I straightened my back further and pinned him with a stare. "Dillon, let us in. We need to talk to him."

"Hey, you can't just come into our common room!" One of the girls – I thought it was the shortest one – objected shrilly. I didn't even glance towards her. My attention was focused solely upon Dillon, who very obviously didn't object right away.

Slowly, his lips pursing again, he shook his head. "You're not supposed to –"

"Look, arsehole, unless you're actually going to do something yourself, let us in your bloody room." Rhali, ever the eloquent conversationalist, looked ready to offer Dillon the favour of a broken nose. I wouldn't put it past her, would almost be inclined to assist the delivery. "Obviously you've done something incredibly stupid, you twat, so why don't you just step aside and let his _friends_ try and help him."

I couldn't have put it better myself.

Evidently, Dillon felt the brief tirade was quite perfect too. He paused for only a minute longer, obviously at war with himself, before sighing heavily and nodding. The fourth year girls gave a communal mew of protest but surprisingly the Hufflepuff prefect turned a silencing glare upon them. "Oh, do be quiet girls. Don't be ridiculous."

"But… no one but a Hufflepuff has _ever_ gone into the Hufflepuff common room." The plump girl's bottom lip quivered as though she was actually going to cry.

Dillon snorted. "If you really believe that, then you're more hopelessly ignorant than I'd previously thought. Haven't you seen Kelly bring her boyfriend Achilles in here every Thursday for the past four months?"

Well. That was news to me. And apparently to the girls too, for their eyes blew open wide.

I didn't have a moment to consider the situation further, however. I didn't really care to in that moment either, for with a flick of his fingers Dillon gestured us towards the Basement barrels. In a rapping rhythm of his knuckles, tapping out a pattern too fast for me to make out, he was clambering back into the largest of them and disappeared from the corridor. I didn't hesitate, pulling myself in after him within moments.

Crawling. The Hufflepuffs actually had to crawl. Well, I suppose they could have walked if they were bent nearly double, but… really? How ridiculous. Had my concern for Al not been paramount, I would have objected to the indignity of it all. As it was… well, dirt stains were a pain to get out of trouser knees, but not impossible.

We passed post haste through the common room. I got an impression of yellow, of homeliness and plush seating, of brass and timber décor, thick rugs and a prevalence of greenery before we passed down a succession of shallow steps to what were evidently the dormitories. The seventh year boy's dormitory, apparently, if the stoppered bottleneck of curious students crowding a deliberate three feet away from Grettle Jamison was any indication.

Grettle was standing pressed against the door, her palms flat against the oaken wood and frowning with worry. That frown immediately shifted to disapproval when she noticed myself, Rhali and Ozzy following closely behind Dillon, stemmed at the base of the steps by her audience. She didn't comment though, only turning back to the door and knocking with a rap of knuckles in a display that seemed resigned, bespeaking numerous prior attempts.

"Al, please. Open the door. We just want to make sure you're okay."

No answer. There wasn't even the faintest whisper of a reply. Grettle sighed heavily, rapping her knuckles again. "Al?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Rhali grumbled. Without ceremony, she pushed her way through the mass of idling Hufflepuffs. Muted cries and exclamation of "what are you doing here?" met her passage but she didn't spare them a moment of her time. I slipped hastily into the channel she created, like a parting of the Red Sea, with Ozzy right on my heels.

Stepping up to the door, Rhali very nearly barged Grettle out of the way. Her own knock was far more demanding and positively forbade being ignored. "Albus Potter, you open up this door right now or I swear, by Merlin, I'll blast it open myself."

She didn't speak loudly, but Rhali's voice was certainly forceful. I was sure there would be quite a few rumours from spooked Hufflepuffs tomorrow about the ferocity of the toothpick of a Slytherin with the crazy hair. I sincerely doubted she'd care. She certainly looked uncaring of external opinions as, when no reply arose, she banged once more on the door. "Al?!"

Still no reply. I edged up to her side, frowning in mounting concern. What if he was having a panic attack? Did he need support through them? I'd never been on the supporting end of such an occurrence before, for Al or anyone else, but I got the impression that a little help couldn't go astray. What if he was having an attack and wasn't in the right frame of mind to even _open_ the door?

Evidently Rhali was thinking the same thing. Shaking her head decisively, she took a wide step backwards, slipped her wand from her pocket and aimed it at the door.

"Unlock, Rhali, unlock -!"

Ozzy's attempts at urging moderation from the Slytherin girl proved fruitless. In a splintering explosion of fragmented wood, of spraying sawdust and the cracking of timer, the oaken door caved inwards. The Hufflepuffs loosed a communal cry, and I didn't need to glance behind myself to know they'd scattered away from the dorm. Grettle looked on the verge of fleeing herself.

Neither Rhali, Ozzy nor I paid them any attention. As I was right beside Rhali, I managed to hasten through the door first. It took a bit of a step to clamber over the broken base of the door, but I made short work of it. And stuttered to a stop as I entered the room.

The dorm was quiet. Too quiet. At first, I didn't see Al anywhere. The smell, though… I would identify the smell of Harproot anywhere.

My eyes scanned the beds – four beds in varying degrees of disorder, each draped in the pervasive colours of yellow and black – and it was only the very distinctive shapes of the mottled Harproot in a pot on the floor and Caesar's cage, parrot huddled atop it, that indicated with was Al's. Then I saw Al – Al, lying half rolled towards me on his bed – and every thought abruptly fled from my mind.

I must have Apparated across the room. Impossible as it was, I must have. One moment I was by the door, the next I was collapsing half atop the bed and half at its side, hands clutching at Al's shoulders. My mind was racing frantically, my eyes peeled wide enough that they threatened to fall from my head. My heartbeat thudded in my ears. "Al? Al!"

He was lying on the bed atop the blankets. Lying as though sleeping, but no one looked like that in simple sleep. There was a limpness to him that even weariness could not instil. He was dressed for school down to the shoes still on his feet, and each article of clothing was mussed as though he'd dragged himself across the floor on his stomach. But it wasn't that which stood out.

Paleness didn't even begin to describe it. Al went far beyond that. His skin was so pale it was more blue than white. His eyelids had taken on a strange purplish tinge that matched faintly parted lips. But worst of all, worst…

"He's - he's not breathing. Is he breathing? H-he, he doesn't look like he's breathing!"

Rhali. Rhali was panicking. Rhali _,_ the stoic, hard-hearted witch with barely a bone of sympathy in her body, was in near hysterics. I couldn't spare her a glance, not to look away from Al lying for all appearances _dead_ on the bed, but I knew the aggressive Rhali was gone. I didn't cared.

I was frozen in a state of horrified shock. Not breathing? No, he - Al, he didn't _look_ to be breathing. I had to check. I _needed_ to check. I - I couldn't move, but I needed to check –

"Oh my God. Oh my God, I have to get Longbottom." Grettle had followed us into the room. Followed, and departed just as quickly, the sharp slap of her footsteps on the floor rapidly disappearing into echoing distance. I didn't glance after her as she left. I was stunned into horrified shock. I had to check, I _had to check_ , but -

Ozzy was beside the bed before I could shake myself from my terrified stupor. His movements were jerking, his hands trembling as he reached  towards Al's chin, cupping his dark fingers around the side of his neck. We waited, stilled and petrified. I didn't think I breathed myself.

"He's -" Ozzy took a cracking gasp of breath. "He's got a pulse, he -"

The words finally wrenched me from my immobility. I lurched across the bed, the hands grasping Al's shoulders once more and shaking, squeezing as I leant over him. "Al! Al, wake up. Come on, can you hear me? Wake up, please, wake up!"

"What's happening? Oh God, what's happening? Why is this -? What's - I don't understand…" Rhali had begun a stumbling murmur of chants behind us. I barely heard her, my hands only squeezing more tightly onto Al's shoulders.

"H-hospital Wing. We have to get him to the Hospital Wing," Ozzy gasped. He sounded almost as terrified as I felt.

I sensed more than saw his eyes turn towards me. It took an almost insurmountable effort to glance towards him. The fear in his eyes… it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. And suddenly, unhinged and terrified as I was myself, I felt need lock its teeth into me. Ozzy, Rhali and myself; we were Al's friends, he was my _boyfriend_ , and dammit, I wasn't so useless as to sit there and do nothing.

I didn't pause to even cast a Lightening Charm before I rose to my feet and slung Al into my arms. I doubt I would have had the stability of mind to do so had I been able to fumble my wand from my pocket. This situation - I'd never encountered anything like it before. Magic just felt utterly beyond me.

My feet were moving without direction. In an instant I was through the door and scrambling from the Hufflepuff common room. The sounds of Ozzy's frantically gasping breaths, of Rhali's terrified chants, followed me all the way to the Hospital Wing.

* * *

Master Pomfrey took one look at me as I entered and flowed into action. He had his mother's gift for nursing, everyone said, but I'd say he went above and beyond. I'd never met his predecessor, but the school nurse was blessedly good.

With detached professionalism, he directed me to place Al on the nearest bed. I was panting, though from exertion or sheer terror I don't know. As such it was good that Pomfrey kept his directions short and clear. As soon as I settled Al's limp form onto the bed, he'd nudged me from the way and immediately jumped into casting an intricate array of spells over the bed.

"What happened?"

I didn't know. I had no idea exactly what happened, what precisely had made Al like he was. What had turned him into a fucking _corpse_. So I told Pomfrey everything. About the whispers about our trip to Hogsmeade, about the Prophet, about how Al sometimes freaked out.

About the Harproot that was still burning in the dormitory.

Pomprey didn't judge. He didn't even say a word at my mention of the Harproot, though he did spare me a worried, sidelong frown, his heavy brows drawn low, before turning his attention back to his spells. Ozzy tried to help, filling Pomfrey in on Al's anxiety disorder that I was rapidly coming to the conclusion were far more extreme than I'd ever considered. Rhali was… Rhali was inconsolable. Huddling behind us and shaking with visible trembles, she didn't seem capable of contributing.

It took a few minutes, a few precious, terrifying minutes after the explanation in which Pomfrey worked with his dark head bowed over Al and muttering charms. I watched Al's pale face, the distinct lack of change, the absence of movement from his chest.

He wasn't breathing.

_Why wasn't he breathing?_

The Harproot, it didn't do that, did it? It didn't just _stop someone from fucking breathing!_

Rhali had started sobbing. Her sniffles were the only sound contesting with Pomfrey's nearly inaudible mutters.

And we waited. I could have sworn I barely breathed myself in that time.

Finally, though, finally there was a stuttering gasp and Al sucked in a ragged, stilted breath. I nearly collapsed on the floor beside his bed then and there. I managed to retain my footing, but only just. My knees trembled something fierce. Rhali wasn't so fortunate, sinking in a fluid slump to the floor with one exceptionally loud sob. Ozzy nearly followed her only catching himself by grasping onto the flimsy nightstand.

Pomfrey released a gushing breath of his own. It was only in that moment that I realised, truly realised, how fucking close we'd been. That Al had nearly…

"He's alright. He'll be alright." Pomfrey nodded his head to each of us in turn, offering brief reassurance. His smile was wan, however, more of a grimace. "He'll be alright."

My heart felt like it was going to thump out of my chest. It thudded painfully, striking my rib cage in incessant demands. Of what, I knew not. It was a struggle to moderate my own breathing. "What -?" I choked out, and had to swallow to force out more than a croak. "What happened to him?"

"That remains to be seen, Mr Malfoy." Pomfrey frowned worriedly at Al's prone form, lying limp and immobile on the hospital bed. His eyes visibly followed the faint, uneven rise and fall of his chest and he looked on the verge of leaning back over him once more. "I will have to run some more tests. While I do so, I would ask you to go –"

"We're not leaving," Ozzy broke in, his own voice wavering."

Pomfrey's concerned frown became stern as he lanced towards him. "Mr Ipping, you will do as you are told."

"We can't leave him," I said with my own demand. To my ears it sounded more pleading than anything. Rhali gave a pitiful whimper of agreement from behind me.

My attempt only served to draw Pomfrey's attention to me instead of Ozzy. He certainly was stern; that glare could cut through steel. "You will also do as I say , Mr Malfoy, or I will be forced to remove you from my hospital myself."

I very much believed he would. At his words, the objectionable side of me was immediately quelled. I nodded rapidly.

Apparently deeming my response adequate, Pomfrey nodded curtly in turn. "Right. I need to run some diagnostics. You, Mr Malfoy, will alert Professor Longbottom of Potter's situation. Mr Ipping, if you would, please take a message to the Headmaster to request Mr Potter's family's immediate attendance. Miss Hamphyn…" Pomfrey paused as his attention turned towards Rhali. His lips thinned and he shook his head, disregarding what he had been about to say. I couldn't blame him. A brief glance in Rhali's direction showed she looked nearly as pale as Al and about to faint herself. "Miss Hamphyn, you may either take a seat outside the Hospital Wing or take yourself back to your dormitory. The decision is yours."

We nodded. All three of us in unison took one long, final look at Al before turning to leave. It was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. I was practically walking backwards out the door for how frequently I cast a glance back over my shoulder. Al looked incredibly weak and fragile upon that bed. Even knowing Pomfrey was there to look after him, and would be able to far more capably than me, I felt a rising fear that he would suddenly stop breathing again.

As soon as we stepped into the corridor I broke into a run. I had to get Longbottom, yes, but I'd be back as soon as humanly possible.


	16. I Can Do Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much feels. Sorry, but not sorry :)

_Tuesday, 5.51am_

I couldn't sleep. I hadn't sleep a wink the entire night.

How could I?

I'd left the Ravenclaw tower before the candles had even flickered themselves into existence in the common room. It had been sometime around five o'clock I thought. I couldn't help myself. I couldn't sit still and the thought of lying in my bed any longer gave me a physical itch that was almost painful. I knew the Hospital Wing wouldn't be open, that I wouldn't be allowed in but… but I just had to be there. Just a little bit closer to Al.

Which was how I found myself, at ten to six, leaning on the wall next to the locked doors of the Hospital Wing. If willing them with simple desire to swing open had been possible, they would certainly have been long since struck from their hinges.

I hadn't gotten a chance to see Al again yesterday. Pomfrey wouldn't let me. After a long discussion with the Headmaster, Weatherwell and Longbottom, he allowed only a brief visit from the five family members of Al's still at school before we were all ordered to leave. Apparently Al wasn't stable and Pomfrey had some tests he needed to run and a close eye to monitor with. Lily had been the only one allowed back in when a very distressed Mr and Mrs Potter had shown up, nearly running in a fit of visible worry. They disappeared inside without a word, apparently unseeing of those of us waiting outside. A little while later a pair witches in the matching blue robes of Healers had appeared and followed behind them, similarly disappearing with a snick of the closing door. Apparently St. Mungo's had been called.

None of us, not myself nor Rhali nor Ozzy, not Rose or Hugo or Roxanne, moved for the rest of the day. Disregarding our classes entirely, we waited. Weatherwell gave us a brief glance of stern but silent disapproval as she left the Hospital Wing, but at an unintelligible murmur from Headmaster Tyril she had let us be. I'd never felt fondness for the elderly man before that – I'd always thought him only just shy of senile, to be honest – but in that moment something very near to it certainly arose.

We waited. No one spoke but simply… waited. Rose sat directly across from the door on the uncomfortable stone floor, heads bowed and frowning in intense thought that failed to conceal her evident worry. Her little brother Hugo looked like he was going to bite his way completely through his nails while their cousin Roxanne made an exceptional impression an owl for the wideness of her eyes as she stared fixedly at the hospital doors. As for Ozzy, Rhali and I… concern didn't even begin to cover it. It was only mildly comforting to know that I weren't alone with my thoughts.

At nine o'clock that night, we finally departed. The Healers and the Potters were both still secreted behind those blasted doors, but they wouldn't open for us. Stomachs grumbling from having survived only on a minimalistic lunch and dinner the Scarmander twins had brought us, we drifted off to our respective common rooms. I doubt any of us would have left at all had Pomfrey not stepped from brightness of the artificially lit Hospital Wing wearing a scowl that could scare the dead and shooed us away. He threatened with detentions and I fully believed he'd stand by his threats. Pomfrey was infamous for his forcefulness regarding how his patients should be treated and who should be given the honour of seeing them.

I didn't study all night. I couldn't. For the first night in as long as I could remember my books remained in my bag. I didn't even pick up a quill. I doubt I would have done much more had I managed even that much. All I could think about was Al, about how pale and lifeless he'd looked, about how he _hadn't been breathing_ , and desperately wondering why. What had reduced him to that state? It had just happened _so fast_. I'd seen him only the night before and he'd been fine, and Ozzy, Ozzy saw him that morning. It couldn't have been the Harproot, surely. I knew now _why_ he had freaked out – as freak out he certainly had – but still couldn't fathom _how?_ What was it that had nearly killed him?

Killed him. Al had nearly died. The thought made me feel like I was going to throw up.

Harproot wasn't deadly. That was the main factor that had finally convinced me that partaking wouldn't destroy my life. Al even told me that, at its most extreme, it wouldn't do more than induce exceptional sleepiness. I believed him. Of course I did. So what had happened?

I knew what had triggered it. Between the Daily Prophet article and, from what Rhali and Ozzy had suggested in our brief exchanges throughout our day of wait, the reaction of the school to mine and Al's supposed date on Sunday, it didn't take a genius to figure it out. I felt nothing but seething fury for my fellow students. Rhali and Ozzy, Al's sister and cousins, they were the only exception to my anger. But everyone else, even my own housemates?

No, anger didn't even begin to describe how I felt towards _them_.

I didn't remain by myself for long on Tuesday morning. I hadn't expected to - from their identical expressions last night, I suspected that each and every one of us waiters would be back early the next morning.

I had not, however, anticipated all six of us to be loitering outside the doors by six thirty. As the minutes slowly trickled past, first Ozzy, then Rose, then Hugo, Roxanne and Rhali all showed up and took their designated places of wait outside the closed hospital doors. No Lily though, which I wasn't sure what to make of.

I noticed detachedly that we were all stationed in exactly the same places we'd been the day before, down to the half-dozen steps that Hugo was trekking back and forth directly before the doors. None of us spoke, barely offering a nod of heads in greeting as each person arrived, but that hardly mattered. I felt an unexpected and largely unfamiliar sense of camaraderie settle between us, apparent even through the riot of clamouring emotions battering in my skull. The shared worry for our friend – or family as the case may be – was… it bound us together somehow.

I'd never felt anything like that before, not with any of my other friends. And somehow, even in the midst of my fear for Al, that knowledge was comforting.

At seven o'clock on the dot the doors to the Hospital Wing swung inward. I pushed myself from the opposing wall within an instant and, with Rose on one side of me and Ozzy on the other, crossed to stand directly before the school nurse before he'd even fully raised his head to step through the door.

Pomfrey looked tired. At the sight of us, that tiredness only seemed to grow more pronounced. His eyes were faintly reddened as though he'd been rubbing them, and the scruff of a stubble darkening his usually clean-shaven cheeks was in perfectly unkempt keeping with the waywardly ungroomed state of his hair.

Pomfrey gave a sigh as he ran a quick eye over the six of us. "Come on then. You'd best come inside." Without another word he turned in place and drifted back into the Hospital Wing. The sound of scuffing shoes as we all frantically hastened after him was the only sound we made.

The room was empty. I noticed that detail without really understanding the full weight of what it meant. There was no Al in the bed I'd lowered him onto the day before, no distressed Mr and Mrs Potter or anxious Lily crowding around their son and sibling. The Healers from St. Mungo's were similarly absent, disappeared without leaving a trace as though they'd never been. And beyond that, not even another student stretched along the thin hospital mattresses. Empty was entirely the correct word for it.

Pomfrey walked straight into his adjoining office, not even glancing over his shoulder to ensure we followed him. Stepping into the neat little room, our group spread out awkwardly before the wide desk stacked with piles of handwritten parchment. The room was barely large enough to fit us all within its walls, and made smaller by the cupboards lining them with rows upon rows of labelled files and hardcover books. A single pot plant of some vine-like sprout that Al would likely have been able to identify stood in the corner beneath a small window that shed morning light across half of the room. Any homeliness or warmth it might have created, however, was dissipated by the sterile scent that clung to the walls, the floors, fizzling in the air as it seeped from the greater Hospital Wing.

Pomfrey released a heavy sigh as he eased himself into the hard-backed chair behind the desk. He looked older than his years; the lines around his eyes and lips shouldn't have been so pronounced in a man of barely thirty-five. He folded his hands before him, elbows propped on the desk, and dropped his chin onto clasped knuckles. Dark eyes swept across our number, scanning and assessing for… _something_.

When he spoke his voice was low and filled with weariness. "Mr Potter has been transferred to St. Mungo's."

That was it. That simple statement, followed by a pause, and the wary uncertainty that had settled upon me had its feet swept out from underneath it.

Oh.

St. Mungo's.

St. Mungo's was… taking Al to the British Wizarding Hospital meant that things weren't good. No, more than that. They meant they were bad. _Very_ bad.

Oh no… Oh…Oh _f_ ucking hell _._

The thoughts arrived slowly, simplistically, and even as they dominated my mind I was aware that my comprehension levels sat at somewhere around that of an eight year old.

"Is he alright?" Rose's voice wavered slightly, but from the corner of my eye I saw her jaw firm an instant later as she steadied herself steady.

Pomfrey turned his head slightly towards her. "No. No, I'm afraid Mr Potter truly is not 'alright'." At the communal flinch that rippled throughout us all, he raised a hand. "He is no longer in a critical state, but Healers Murphey and Ophelia have deemed it appropriate to take him into intensive care."

"Intensive care," Hugo muttered to my left. He sounded hollowly horrified.

Pomfrey nodded his head slowly. "You must all be aware, Mr Potter was in a very dangerous state when he arrived at the Hospital Wing yesterday. Suffice it to say that the situation would not have been quite so salvageable as it was had I received him much later."

I swallowed down a sickened rush of bile flooding my mouth. _Not quite so salvageable…_ Merlin, that was a euphemism if ever I'd heard one. Salvageable? The nurse may have well have blatantly stated that Al was knocking on death's door. I closed my eyes briefly, pressing my lips together in an attempt to hold back a shudder that threatened to tremble my limbs. I don't think I was altogether successful.

Words slipped from my clamped lips before I gave them express permission. "Can we see him?"

Opening my eyes, I met the dark gaze of Pomfrey, fixed steadily upon me this time. There was sadness to accompany the weariness that swam in his narrowed eyes. "No, Mr Malfoy, I don't believe that is feasible at present."

"Why not? How can you just –?"

"At present, Mr Potter is in _intensive care_ ," the nurse repeated. He dropped his hands, still clasped, onto the table with a soft ' _rap_ '. "Only his immediate family is permitted to attend his bedside until he has fully stabilised."

"But surely we could," Rose began brokenly. My sidelong glance towards her once more saw her twitching her fingers up to flick nervously at her red curls before gesturing towards herself, Hugo and Roxanne. I tried not to feel resentful over the exclusion but felt I failed at that too. "I mean, we're family too."

Pomfrey shook his head. "No, Miss Weasley, I don't think that will be possible. The situation is very delicate, and the Potters have expressed their desire to keep the situation as private as possible."

"Oh," Rose croaked, understanding flooding through that simple word. An understanding that I too perceived in that moment.

Of course. Al was a _Potter_. The fact that he'd wound up in hospital – and for such a reason – would give any Wizarding reporter or journalist a field day. I felt another rush of physical nausea, tinged this time with fierce, sparking anger, welling within me.

For whatever reason, even after more than twenty-five years, the media still scrambled at anything vaguely related to 'Harry Potter'. He could scratch his nose with his left hand and the papers would be in uproar about his potential ambidextrous tendencies, that all these years of suspected right-handedness were a farce and what could this conspiracy theory mean for the Wizarding world?! It was utterly ridiculous, but the enduring obsession with the once-Saviour was as strong as ever. I couldn't dispute it, really; it had simply always been.

What I _could_ dispute was that Al had been caught up in it. That, like his siblings and his mother, even his mother's family, the slightest abnormality, any drift from what was deemed 'seemly' for witches and wizards of this day and age, was leapt upon like a Niffler on gold. I'd read in passing over the years of the first time Lily failed an exam – everyone at school knew the reason was valid enough, what with her cat dying and her subsequent mourning – and had similarly leapt upon the first quidditch match that James had played with feverish delight, though not quite so delighted as they had been the first time he'd lost the snitch to an opposing team. How the papers and rag mags, and even the more reputable magazines, got wind of such trivial knowledge was a mystery to me, but regardless of the how they always seemed to simply _know_.

Just like how they knew about Al. Just like how they jumped upon the tiniest morsel of information with greedy fingers and, with bias and exaggeration, spread it like a pervasive stain across the papers in bold headlines.

It was ridiculous. Ridiculous nd completely unavoidable. Everything about the situation was so stupidly unfair.

Pomfrey had been talking for some time now and I realised with a start that I'd missed just about all of it. That was unusual for me. I wasn't one to tune out. Ever. And yet, even as I struggled to attend to his words, my mind remained at least half occupied with thoughts of Al, with debilitating worry and concern, with growing anger towards the world at large and weariness that hung suspended in my head like a surfacing headache.

"… flush it all from his system. The treatment is often quite painful and distressing for the patient, so I believe the Healers consider it a benefit that he is still asleep."

"He's still sleeping?" Rose asked worriedly. She seemed to be the spokesperson for the Weasley clan at least, though Rhali and Ozzy themselves didn't seem inclined to saying a word.

Pursing his lips, Pomfrey dropped his eyes to his folded hands. "I am not at liberty to discuss the physical state of Mr Potter – I'm sure you understand patient-physician confidentiality, Miss Weasley – but –"

"Surely you could just tell us if he's awake," I interrupted. My words sounded like a demand even to myself, but I didn't really care, not even when Pomfrey turned frowning eyes upon me. "We're his - we're his friends. Our interests arise from feelings of _concern_ not… not…"

I couldn't even choke out a conclusion to my exclamation but Pomfrey seemed to hear it nonetheless. He stared at me for a moment before slowly, slowly then with more conviction, he nodded his head. "Yes, Mr Malfoy, I do understand. And it is entirely for that reason, that you are his _friends_ and _confidants,_ that I have brought you into this circle of trust." Circle of trust? Oh, bloody hell, give me a fucking break. "I am sure I don't have to request your communal silence on all topics discussed within these walls."

The nurse swept his gaze over the lot of us, his eyes widening slightly in what I thought may have bordered on threatening. I didn't judge him for it, nor feel disgruntled at the insinuation. If anyone in the room – family or otherwise – chose to break that 'confidence', they'd be _wishing_ that Pomfrey had gotten to them first. I wouldn't be quite so merciful as to offer mere detentions.

Regardless of my personal resolutions, Pomfrey waited silently, pointedly, until all of us had nodded our agreement and understanding. "Now, the Healers of St. Mungo's have requested that I interview each of Mr Potter's closest friends so that we may ascertain the catalyst of this situation."

I felt a hand tighten around my chest. _Ascertain the catalyst_. Well, it didn't take a genius to deduce what the school nurse was referring to. And from the tail end of his previous words, '"flushing it all from his system" seemed to indicate the assumed cleansing of toxic substances.

What was I supposed to say? What were any of us suppose to say? The fact that Al – and Rhali and Ozzy, and now I – used recreational drugs on a regular basis was school wide knowledge. Or maybe not about _me_ , but as much was certainly true for the other three. And even though I didn't quite know how they maintained such obliviousness, it was similarly no secret that the professors _didn't_ know. There had been a delicate balance on the subject for so long… how were we supposed to answer questions without routing out such an enduring secret?

I didn't care about getting in trouble for it. A brief, sidelong glance towards Rhali and Ozzy, taking in their tight eyes and thinning lips taut with nothing but concern for Al, was all the indication I needed that they felt the same. Even expulsion didn't seem all that critical at the moment, which I knew when considering my own dedication to studies up until a day ago was ground breaking in its sincerity. At the moment I… I didn't care. I didn't really care about anything but Al, could hardly think of anything except my heartfelt plea that he would simply be alright.

But what did we say? The Healers had to know about the Harproot. It was a primary contributor to the situation I had belatedly realised in the long, silent hours of yesterday when memories resurfaced and the musky scent hanging in the Hufflepuff dormitory rose to the forefront of my mind and made sense. It was essential that they know _everything_ I could possibly tell about the situation because… because it would help Al.

But it couldn't have been the Harproot. It simply couldn't have been. Could it? It had to have been something else, something…

Pomfrey's words intruded upon my worrying and effectively put a halt to the pointless circling of my thoughts. "The Healers of St Mungo's informed me that they are aware of a presence of a certain calming drug that has evidently been utilised for a significant period of time." Ah. That would be the Harproot, surely. I bit the inside of my cheek, resolutely not glancing towards Rhali and Ozzy. "Such calming effects would likely not have been critical to Mr Potter's physical state had not they been coupled with a novel substance taken simultaneously."

"Novel?" For the first time Ozzy spoke up. His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, yet each Weasley's head abruptly whipped towards him as though he's begun cursing in a loudly obnoxious tirade. I knew the reason; few enough people heard Ozzy talk, even if he was more inclined to do so than Al or Rhali. I almost forgot that fact most of the time.

Pomfrey turned shrewd eyes upon Ozzy. I could see the calculation hardening his face. He knew that Ozzy at least wasn't surprised by the circumstances. Or at least not certain aspects of the circumstances. Evidently he wasn't as oblivious as I had considered him. Certainly not as much so as his fellow professors. "Yes, Mr Ipping. Novel. Traces of the marketed drug Meta-Ambrosius have been discovered, the particular strain of which is unknown."

"Meta-Ambrosius?"

Ozzy, I realised in that moment, was not really all that good at hiding his thoughts and feelings. Maybe that was one of the reasons he didn't like talking. There was so much to be read from his simple words that it was almost like reading a book: Ozzy knew about Al's drug habits, and likely had at least a suspicion of what this Meta-Ambrosius was. The name rung a bell, but I couldn't think of where I'd heard it. I'd certainly never heard Al speak of it before, let alone use it.

Pomfrey nodded again slowly. His eyes were trained like a hunting hawk upon Ozzy. "Yes, Mr Ipping. Is there perhaps a reason you can think of that Mr Potter may have been partaking of such a commercial drug?"

Commercial drug? Oh. That's where I'd heard it from. Meta-Ambrosius, or MA as I'd heard it called, was doing the rounds at present, or so I'd heard. A strange name for something that apparently induced a wide range of often dangerous effects, from hallucinations to inflated confidence to temporarily forgetfulness. The thought of any of them, of Al subjecting himself to any of them, was horrifying.

Why? Why would he do that?

Ozzy was shaking his head and Rhali, by his side, was mimicking him in more hesitant denial. "No, Al wouldn't - Al doesn't take any of that. He doesn't do the commercial stuff. He doesn't…" Ozzy glanced at Rhali, who met his gaze with an unreadable stare. "Al doesn't do that."

Pomfrey frowned, the shrewdness of his gaze sharpening. "Not of the commercial brands you say? Yet you are aware of him being involved in other similar situations?" At Ozzy's guilty start and ensuing silence, Pomfrey sighed in something that sounded more like a growl. "Mr Ipping. Mr Potter has fallen into a very serious condition. If you know anything, you would do well to tell me so that I may convey such knowledge to the Healers at St. Mungo's and ensure his recovery."

Ozzy remained silent. I could tell he was at war with himself, fighting an internal battle as surely as I was. I should say something. I _should_. This was Al's health on the line, and yet… I couldn't think that he'd want me to. And in spite of it all, in spite of the foolishness that drove me into holding my tongue on critical information, I couldn't bring myself to speak. I didn't want to act in a way that Al didn't want me to. I didn't… I didn't want that.

As it happened, I didn't have to. After a brief pause in which I wondered at the possibility of Ozzy actually managing to sink his lanky limbs through the stone floor beneath him, Rose spoke. Her voice was low and she stared very pointedly, unblinkingly, at her feet. "Al was… I know Al's been using… been taking drugs for a while now."

My eyes slid towards her as though magnetised, her tall frame slightly bowed and red fringe falling before her face. I still didn't want to speak, didn't want to utter those words that would be a betrayal of confidence. And yet, peering at Rose's thin face, at the hopelessness, the helplessness written there, reality set in.

I didn't want to. _I_ didn't want to say anything. But this wasn't about my wants. This wasn't even about Al's wants. It was about what he needed. And right now, Al needed his Healers to be as informed as possible. He needed them to know exactly what he had taken, what had happened, so that they could help him.

More than that, so that they could ensure he _didn't die_.

Taking a painful swallow, followed by a deep breath, I turned back to facing Pomfrey. Something in my expression must have indicated to him my inclination to speak, for his eyes narrowed as they fastened upon me with focused attentiveness. I couldn't look at Ozzy or Rhali, or the Weasley's even, when I finally managed to speak.

"Al was… lately, he's been using a lot of Harproot. Smoking it, although… perhaps smoking isn't the right term. It's not quite smoking in the conventional sense."

"Harproot?" Pomfrey's eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and worry.

I dipped my head in a nod. "When burned in a certain way, it releases a fragrant smoke that induces a state of calm to those who inhale it. I know that Al - that Albus used it sometimes."

I felt terrible, like I was sawing my leg off in an attempt to drag out the truth. It was physically painful; even to myself, it sounded as though I was accusing Al. It wasn't like that. Al wasn't abusing the Harproot, even if he had been using it a little more often now than usual. It _wasn't abuse_. My recent realisation of the degree of Al's anxieties, of his struggle beneath them, made as much apparent. He _needed_ it, not because he got a kick out of it and revelled in the escapism from monotony. Al had a problem and –

My mind ground to a halt. Al had a problem. Yes, I could see that now. It was not _bad_. There was nothing _wrong_ with him and yet… yes, Al had a problem, and resorting to Harproot to deal with it wasn't the right way to fix it. He was coping, but it wasn't helping him.

This anxiety thing. I suddenly suspected it was a lot bigger than even I had gradually come to realise.

"Mr Malfoy?"

I blinked, drawing my mind back from where it had drifted. Such distraction was happening with disconcerting frequency over the past days. The past twenty-four hours, to be precise. I found it unhinging, yet even realising that I knew there was nothing I could do about it.

"I'm sorry?"

"I asked if you knew of how long Mr Potter has been using this Harproot for."

I twinge of guilty relief flickered through me. I could answer this one with a semblance of honesty at least. I didn't know _exactly_ how long. I shook my head, very deliberately not looking at Rhali or Ozzy. "No, I don't."

Pomfrey studied me for a moment, eyes flickering between both of mine as though digging for fallacy. Finally he sighed. "Well, such information is irrelevant at the moment. Are you aware of how long Mr Potter was partaking of Meta-Ambrosius?"

"I never knew he was taking it," I replied, then frowned and shook my head once more. "No, that's not right. He hasn't been taking it. I'm sure I'd know." I hoped I'd know. He would have told me, wouldn't he? This was just a once off thing, wasn't it? "Al was always careful with what he would and wouldn't use."

Pomfrey's expression became sceptical and I could read the thoughts passing though his mind easily enough. _Obviously not this time._ "Yes, well, be that as it may, Mr Potter has been found to have such in his system. This is…" Pomfrey's lips thinned. "This is highly concerning. That a student would be using illegal substance in the school -"

"Al's not going to get expelled, is he?" Rose suddenly broke in. Her voice sounded abruptly fearful, and I immediately felt an upwelling of my own panic. _S_ _hit, how did I not even consider that?_

Dropping his eyes to his clasped hands, Pomprey pursed his lips once more. "At present, Mr Potter's health and safety is of primary concern. I am not at liberty to make assurances on the future of his enrolment after this point, but given it is certainly a very serious situation... well, the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress briefly discussed the situation last night, but as far as I am aware they remain inconclusive on the matter."

I felt my chest seize once more. I glanced once at Rose, met her eyes and the worry, the guilt bared plainly within them, and felt a morbidly kindred spirit in her. We'd routed Al out. If he got expelled, not only would he be devastated, surely, but it would be our fault. I gulped another painfully grazing swallow and glanced to my right towards Rhali and Ozzy. They briefly flickered their gazes towards my own before dropping them back to their shoes in perfect synchrony. We'd shared a moment of understanding, however, and I knew – _knew_ – that should the worst come of this incident that we would stand alongside Al. We were, after all, as guilty as he.

I felt a crushing blow of horror at the thought – expelled? I would be expelled? Merciful Merlin, it would end me! – before I resolutely thrust it to the side. Yes, my life would collapse. Yes, it would very possibly lead to a tidal wave of unforeseen issues that would strike me with painful whiplash. More than that, more than destroying my own prospects, my own education, it would rebound against my family. I could just imagine my father's disappointment as he averted his gaze, my mother's hysterical indignation at the world that would flip in an instant to fiery fury directed solely towards me.

But it was my fault. I should have considered it straight off the bat. It would be my fault if this all ended in disaster for me. I had chosen to take Al up on the offer of joining him in the Niche all those months ago. And, going back, though perhaps I might have been more hesitant about folding that sliver of Happy Gum into my mouth, I would not have turned away from the hand offered by my now-boyfriend. Even knowing what I did now. Al, Rhali and Ozzy – they had given me too much for me to regret _that_.

Pomfrey continued in a weary tone, more to himself that to the six of us lined up before him. He regretted the pervasiveness of a unseen 'drug problem' through the school, mourned that it had collapsed so heavily upon one of Hogwarts' students, and offered words of supposition, not quite reassurance but almost, that under the care of St. Mungo's' Healers Al would be okay.

And, with a final extraction of another vow of silence from all of us, he urged us from the room. "Be sure to attend you classes. There is nothing that can be achieved from sitting idle in wait for word. A message will be sent to each of you should there be any development on the matter."

The doors of the Hospital Wing clicked closed behind us. There was a sense of finality to the sound.

I glanced around me at what had become my de facto comrades. A support squad, if you would. Rose's eyes were still blown wide in horror as she stared with glassily down the hallway. Hugo's face was wrinkled into something nearly as worried, and he'd gone back to chewing on his fingernails. Roxanne seemed to have developed something of a nervous twitch and fidgeted from foot to foot as she cast her glance between her cousins, towards me, even pausing briefly on Rhali and Ozzy. Al's two friends didn't pay her – or any of the rest of us – a second of notice. Their heads were bowed yet still half-turned towards one another. I got the impression they were holding a silent conversation, speaking a thousand unheard words, that I wasn't party to. It left me feeling a little hollow inside; yes, they were my friends, but they had been friends for so much longer. I couldn't hope to be as close to them.

That hurt just a little. Though really, what did I expect? The worst part of it all was that it only made me miss Al all the more.

"We should…" Rose's voice was strained and she paused to clear her throat. "We should head down to breakfast or… or get ready for class." With fumbling motions she reached into her pocket and extracted her want. Waving it briefly, she cast a _Tempus_ Charm. Seven eighteen. There was still over an hour until classes even started.

There was too much time. Too much time to idle and ponder and consider horrendous possibilities. I already felt my mind drifting towards that field of excessive, nagging worry, the array of unanswerable questions, the persistent need to be near Al yet the knowledge that I was unable to hasten to his side. A flicker of jealousy flashed through me – why should his family get to be at his bedside but not me? Lily was surely there – before I crushed it guiltily. It was horribly unfair of me. They were his _family_ after all.

"I think I'm going to head up to the dormitories," Roxanne murmured, barely loud enough to be heard. She was a tall girl, just like Rose, yet her bowed head and hunched shoulders made her seem smaller. She glanced towards Rose as though asking for permission before starting in nervous strides down the hallway.

"I'll come," Hugo muttered, too quietly for Roxanne to have heard with the distance she'd already put between them. He hastened after her and the pair disappeared in moments.

Turning from their absented figures, I glanced once more towards Rhali and Ozzy to find… that they had retreated themselves. Without a word, both had turned and were walking with slow, weary steps down the corridor. I opened my mouth to speak to them but felt my voice catch in my throat. At the T-junction at the end of the corridor, the two split without another word and headed in opposite directions.

I stared down the empty hallway, bared of their presence. Maybe that was just their way of dealing with it. Neither wanted to talk because they simply _didn't_ talk.

"Do you want to come down and get some breakfast with me?"

I turned back to Rose as she spoke up once more. Her voice was quieter now but without the waver. The set to her jaw bespoke a deliberate intention towards determination. Towards resilience. In that instant, I knew that Rose Weasley truly did embody the traditional image of a Gryffindor. It surely took an inordinate amount of strength on her part to be able to pull herself together, to struggle through her fears for her cousin. A close cousin, Al had said, though not as close as they had once been. She was surely stronger than I.

I guessed Weatherwell wasn't thoughtless in her appointment as a prefect after all.

I didn't usually mix with Rose. Truly, I'd barely spoken more than a handful of words to her over the years, and most of them were necessary given our corresponding prefect duties. But I had a sudden urge to take her up on the offer. For the first time in a long time I really didn't want to be alone. Not now.

Nodding my head, unable to speak, I gave her a small, struggling smile. She offered a feeble one in return and together we headed down to the Great Hall. Our footsteps rung hollow and disconsolate on the stone floor with our passing.

* * *

_Wednesday, 8.13am_

I tore the letter with a vicious shredding motion. Even the flinch that reflexively twitched through me didn't slow me. It wasn't enough. I was angry, and that letter… another bloody business partner. No, I didn't think he was even a business partner; Kelvin Markerson was just a middle class lord with an inflated sense of importance.

I didn't care. I _didn't care_. What did it matter that he considered me an upstanding young man? What did it matter that he thought I would do remarkably well at LeFay? _Why should I care_ that he wondered at the possibility of the Markerson family tightening the grasp on their shares? Father would care. Father _could_ care.

I didn't. It just made me angry.

I been angry a lot that day. I'd barely been out of bed for three hours, but most of that time I'd been seething with an untargeted rage. My robes had a crease in them that wouldn't iron out, even beneath the force of a charm and it was horribly vexing. The nib of my quill snapped when I pressed on it too hard so I burnt it to a cinder. The toast at breakfast this morning was closer to bread, and not nearly warm enough to melt butter, so I stabbed it viciously into pieces and left my knife standing upright at the very center of the shredded pile like a proud flag pole. Even the scene of the massacre didn't ease my frustration.

Uncharacteristic didn't begin to cover it. I knew my anger was illogical, knew it was startling to any who would witness it. I didn't even need to glance sidelong at the wary stares of my housemates. I did anyway, though, if only to glare and scowl at them hard enough to draw shudders and cause shoulders to bunch nervously. Most of the first years evacuated within seconds beneath my focus.

I didn't care. They deserved it. Everyone in the hall, professors and students alike, who dared to speculate over the paper, over my Sunday trip to Hogsmeade. I felt angry with Flitwick when he approached me with comforting words and a suggestion that I 'talk to someone'. I was angry with Longbottom who sat like a sack of potatoes, staring listlessly at his plate with a hand to his forehead and face pale. I felt angry with them _all_. All of them deserved to feel even a modicum of unease, barely a candle to the bonfire of distress that roared through me. I could only be thankful that, somehow, the media hadn't gotten wind of what had happened yet.

Yet even their unease didn't satisfy me. Nothing would, I knew, because there had been no word on Al. And I was nearly tearing my hair out.

I was angry with Al, too. That too was illogical, unfair – I knew that most of all. But still, angry I was. How could he do that? How could he be so foolish as to take MA, something that he hadn't made? And more than that, he apparently took it in conjunction with Harproot. Magical drugs had a vast array of undiscovered effects, broad and varied simply because of the confounding magical reactions between substance and body systems. Two drugs together? What had he been thinking?

I was angry. I was so, so angry, furious that Al could have done that, could have carelessly pushed himself to the brink of death and _left_ me. Didn't he know how much I needed him, how much I cared for him? Anxieties aside, it was possibly the most selfish thing he could have done.

And in thinking that, I knew that I was being infinitely more selfish.

The letter from Markerson had arrived at ten past eight on the dot. I was already struggling to keep from upturning the Ravenclaw table simply for the hell of it. The thought of scattering dishes in far-flung chaos was satisfying in a way I hadn't considered. I was not a messy person – I _despised_ mess – but even the relative order of my surroundings seemed infuriatingly blasé in the face of the mayhem running rampant in my mind.

It had been running non-stop for two days now. I was exhausted, I couldn't sleep, and I was only growing increasingly angry. Really, standing in the eye of my own personal storm as I was, understanding my own emotions, I could hardly blame my housemates from keeping well clear of me. Even if they did deserve to be the focus of my anger.

My textbooks were spread around me. I was trying to study. Trying. Anything to take my mind off of… things. It worked, almost. Not quite, but almost. And that annoyed me even more. Not only could I do _absolutely nothing_ for Al, but I couldn't even be productive while I waited. I didn't _want_ to squander my education, but…

What the hell was happening to me?

As I stared blankly at the open Defence book in front of me, an owl arrived. It took me a moment to actually realise it was for me, though of course it was. No one sat near enough to my seat at the table that it could be anyone else's. I slowly turned my head towards the owl. An eagle owl, I noticed detachedly, and its piercing orange gaze was far from deterred by my glare. Of course it wasn't; it was one of Father's owls, and he would never stand for a courier of his own to cower under intimidation.

With more force than necessary, I reached for the envelope of heavy parchment attached to the bird's leg and tugged it loose. The owl wavered slightly, caught off balance, but I didn't care. As soon as the letter was torn free, the bird waddled in a tight circle, spread its wings and launched itself away. I didn't spare it a second glance.

My mother's script spelled my name in fluid calligraphy on the front of the envelope. Mother, not Father. And it didn't take a huge leap to suppose what the letter was about. How mother would even be aware of the situation when the rest of the Wizarding world remained ignorant I didn't know, but I didn't question it. Mother had her ways.

_My dear Scorpius,_

_It is with deepest sadness that I hear of Albus' situation. My love, I am so sorry. So truly sorry for the pain that you must be feeling for your friend and lover. I could offer empty platitudes, console with caring words of understanding, but I do not believe that such would make you feel any better._

_Though I can offer so little, please know that I am here for you should you require my support. Whether you find yourself needing a brief respite from the school grounds – which I doubt – or simply wish to exchange words, I will always be here._

_It is my sincerest hope that Albus will make a rapid recovery. For both your sake and that of his family, Ginny Potter of whom is responsible for my knowledge on the matter. She felt it necessary to inform me of her son's hospitalisation, if little else, as she claimed she knew how much Albus cares for you. She claimed she knew similarly that he would worry for how you were enduring. I don't believe Mrs Potter was inaccurate in her assumption._

_Do not fear, my son. Whatever the cause, whatever the situation, I am certain that Albus will Heal. Hold strong, Scorpius._

_Your loving Mother_

I stared at the words on the paper in numb silence. It hurt. They hurt, leaving me with a hollow ache as though I'd been punched in the gut.

A punch that, I slowly realised, seemed to have knocked the anger forcibly from me.

That hurt, too. The absence.

I stared at the letter for long minutes. I wasn't quite sure how long, exactly. I just knew that I was still staring when the school bell chimed in low gongs to urge students to class that I still stared.

It was the closest I'd come to crying since I was six years old. I remembered. Yet now... nothing – _nothing_ – had hit me quite so hard as my mother's words did. Mrs Potter's words. Or, more correctly, Mrs Potter's interpretation. My mother, at least, had been entirely correct in her assumption.

_Please be alright, Al._

* * *

_Thursday, 10. 45am_

Mid spring wasn't warm enough to sit comfortably outside and study. Not in Scotland and certainly not with the persistent wind that flipped pages with the jovial delight of Peeves terrorising first years.

I wouldn't move back inside, though. Nothing could induce me to spend my single free period of the week from my seat in the north corner of the Eastern Courtyard. I was fairly certain it could be storming and I would still be sitting there.

I wasn't alone. Rose sat alongside me. It had been quite a find to discover that we shared a free period. I wondered that I'd never seen her studying before in that time, but then I knew I'd never really cared to notice anyone else. My own studies were of utmost importance, so why should anyone else's matter?

Before Al, before my friendship with him, Rhali and Ozzy, I'd rarely studied with anyone. Oh, others sat alongside me, but I very deliberately dissuaded conversation, save to point out when they erred in a verbal description or spent too little time with their noses in their books. How much had changed in the past months…

The term studying could be used only loosely. I tried. Rose tried. But the weight of near-sleepless nights was weighing upon me and even my own words scrawled on the parchment were beginning to blur and morph together. Weary? No, weary didn't begin to cover it. I was exhausted.

But I still had to try to study. I had to _try_. Not only for my N.E. , and not only to provide a feeble and largely unsuccessful distraction from my own thoughts. I'd made the resolution to take notes for Al, too. I didn't care about Pomfrey's words, didn't care that they might be useless if Al was indeed expelled. I'd do my utmost to help him when he woke up. _When_ he woke up, because he _would_.

Rose sighed heavily at my side. She fidgeted slightly and I didn't need to glance her way to know she was tugging her phone from her pocket and checking it for incoming messages. I similarly didn't need to ask her if she had received any – the disheartened slump of her shoulders was indication enough.

That phone was the only reason we braved the incessant cold. Apparently Hogwarts held only a few constant hotspots in terms of reception and all of them were outside. Rose had approached me yesterday afternoon, dark smudges of tiredness and worry marking her face, and informed me of such. She said that Lily promised she'd keep her updated with any news of Al and that if I wanted to I could sit alongside her when we studied and wait for news with her.

Nothing had buzzed through since Al had been moved to St. Mungo's. I tried not to let that get me down. I tried to think positive. Such was difficult, though, when every muscle within me urged me to drag myself to my bed to sleep, yet my mind plagued me with unanswerable questions and horrifying doubts.

I rubbed an eye and peered more closely at my half written essay.

"Do you - did you by any chance manage to get a sketch of the longitudinal section of the Moonseed sapling?"

I lifted my gaze at Rose's question. She was flicking through a stack of loose pages, each covered in charcoal sketches of plants and diagrams. Her brow was furrowed and she was blinking rapidly in a manner I was all too familiar with of late. I'd been struggling to keep my own eyes open for most of the day.

I wasn't usually one to share work. I offered support when I must, but giving direct answers? That wasn't how one learned. But in this instance I felt particularly obliging. Rose was just like me, struggling to drag herself through classes with as much attentiveness as possible. Besides, she'd offered me a glance at her Ancient Runes homework when I realised I'd missed half of the questions we'd been assigned.

Flipping through my own notes, I squinted at the smudged ink for the requested sketch. I knew it was here somewhere, but my efforts at the moment were poor at best and my handwriting truly abominable. I could hardly read it myself. _Moonseed… moonseed… moonseed…_

A buzz of vibration, accompanied by a faint tinkle of musical tones, drew me up short. My fingers froze in their flicking and I snapped my head gaze Rose. She was barely a second behind me in responsiveness. Her stack of parchments cascaded from her lap to the ground, immediately becoming smeared with speckles of dust and damp. Rose didn't seem to care. She didn't even appear to notice.

Flipping her phone from her pocket, she nudged it into life, thumbs dancing across the screen. I stared at her unblinkingly as her eyes scanned the message. She didn't give anything away, her gaze blank as she read. As soon as she finished, however, she released such a heavy sigh that I felt sure she would deflate like a punctured balloon.

"He's - he's stable. Lily said he's medically stable now. He hasn't woken up yet, but…" Rose's voice trickled off into a waver. She offered me a feeble smile.

I loosed a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. Closing my eyes I bowed my head. Stable. He was stable. Not awake yet but…

With mechanical fingers, I passed the Moonseed sketch towards Rose. The parchment trembled in my grasp for a moment before she took it from me. I couldn't open my eyes again, not yet. The wave of relief that coursed through me was dizzying. I almost felt like I might fall backwards in collapse.

I don't think either of us managed to get an ounce of further study done that morning.

* * *

_Friday, 12.29pm_

I heaved myself to my feet from the Ravenclaw table and walked in slow, measured steps from the Great Hall. As I passed the Gryffindor table I caught a brief glance of Ozzy. He met my eyes for a moment and something approaching a weary, grateful smile settled on his face.

That was a relief to me. Ozzy and Rhali seemed to have dragged themselves from whatever hidden nook they'd secreted themselves in for most of the time after I'd approached them at lunch yesterday. Relief didn't even begin to describe the torrent of emotions that wrought havoc across both of their faces. I'd always thought Rhali to be a bit of a cold-hearted, ruthless witch, but that moment effectively swept clean the assumptions that had already been crumbling over the past days. She'd actually cried, albeit a single tear that was hastily brushed away.

I was still exhausted. I still couldn't sleep more than a wink. I still struggled to study like a horse straining to drawn a carriage from the unyielding fingers of a muddy trench. But it was slightly better. I was slightly better.

Because Al was, at least partially, alright.

That's what I thought until I stepped into the Entrance Hall and nearly ran into Rose charging in the opposite direction. She back-pedalled wildly, nearly tripping over her feet. Such a frantic state was she in that I didn't think she even noticed my proffered hand of assistance as she scrambled to her feet.

When I saw the expression on her face, I felt my heart freeze in my chest. Tears painted Rose's cheeks and her pale blue eyes shone glassy. She looked heartbroken. I didn't have to flicker my eyes down to the hand tightly grasping her phone and clutched to her chest to know what she was about.

_No. No, she can't - she can't be upset. She can't be, because that means -  
_

"Rose," I managed to choke out. My voice sounded pathetically feeble and broken. I didn't care.

Rose was already shaking her head before I spoke. She sniffed and wiped her fingers hastily across her cheeks. It did little to clean them of tears that had begun to fall anew. "No, no Scorpius, it's alright. Everything's fine, I'm just -" She huffed in a sigh that was almost a laugh, though more self-deprecating than amused. "I'm just so… so relieved. I'm just so…"

I still couldn't breath. Even with the reassurance, something seemed to have stilled the beating of my heart in my chest. Stilled it and held it with greedy fingers to prevent its straining attempts to beat. I stared at Rose wide-eyed, pleading in a way that I had _never_ done before. _Please, Rose, please… just tell me…_

"He's alright," Rose stuttered, as though she had heard me. "He's - Lily just messaged me. He's going to be alright. He just woke up. I'm sorry, I was just so relieved, and I was just running down to tell Hugo, and you, and…"

I didn't hear anything further. With a sharp inhalation, the passage that restricted my airflow freed once more. Gasping, I slumped backwards, tottering until my back pressed against the door of the Great Hall. Before I realised it, I found myself sliding down into a crouch, my head dropping into my hands and fingers clutching at my hair. _Thank God. I thought… I feared…_

"Merlin, Rose. Don't… don't do that to me."

We were the only ones in the Entrance Hall. I knew that, because my voice echoed off the empty stonewalls and rebounded back at me in wavering tones. It should have been humiliating. I should have been embarrassed at a performance, to exhibit such pathetic weakness, to be anything but strong, cool and composed in my role as a school prefect.

I had never cared less in my life.

Rose didn't reply immediately. The light scuff of her shoes on the stone floor spoke of her creeping steps to my side. I couldn't even glance up at her. My head felt heavy in my hands and my eyes were blurry as though wrapped in thick cotton. When she did speak, the closeness of her voice told me she'd dropped down to crouch beside me.

"You really care for him, don't you? I wasn't entirely sure how much but…"

I nodded, blinking to clear the cotton. My vision swum into clarity for a moment before blurring once more. My voice croaked as I spoke in reply. "Yeah, I guess you could call it care."

Silence reigned. The distant chatter in the Great Hall, the merry-making of the other students, sounded like it came from another world. "Scor," Rose said in nearly a whisper. "Do you love him? Do you love Al?"

Love. I'd never really thought of the concept as involving me before. It was always an Otherness, an unattainable and irrelevant entity. A figment of fiction that would never apply to me, that I would never want nor need, let alone be afflicted with. To suggest that _I_ was in love…

The blurriness in my eyes swum into bubble-like shards of imperfection. Oh. Tears. That's what it was. Over ten years and it was now that my body chose to finally break its stasis of waterworks and cry? Over the very thought of Love?

"Absolutely."


	17. I'm A Terrible Person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry! I'm sorry for the lateness of the update! Time just got away from me and I didn't realise how long it had been. Enjoy the heart-wrenching sadness :)

Darkness

Silence.

It should have been peaceful. It _was_ peaceful, sort of. There was no floating feeling, no weightlessness. But stasis ensued.

I was lying in the darkness. Darkness like the heaviness of full night when even the distant sounds of the surrounding hubbub had died, when the feeble light of moon and stars were blotted into non-existence by heavy curtains.

It should have been peaceful. It _was_. Sort of.

Except for the pressure. There was a weight. At once in my head, pressing demandingly at a sensitive bulb behind my eyes. Then it faded, only to arise in my chest, in my gut, lodging in my throat.

 _That_ was not peaceful. I didn't like that at all. I did. Not. Like. It.

It should have been scary. I knew it was scary. For a moment, when the pressure slid on its way from the back of my tongue down to my throat once more, I couldn't breathe. That was scary. Or it should have been scary.

But I didn't feel scared. I just felt… hollow.

That should have been scary too. Why didn't I feel scared?

I didn't know. I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember much of anything. I didn't know where I was, couldn't feel anything except that strange, drifting pressure. I couldn't remember what day it was. I couldn't remember what I'd done yesterday. In a sluggish struggle, I fought to make out anything, a faint memory, a feeling of nostalgia. Images of faces flickered forth but disappeared too quickly for me to identify them.

I _couldn't remember_.

That should have been _scary._

I wondered why I wasn't scared?

* * *

I felt warm. Not the warmth of natural body heat. It was the familiar, distinctive warmth of a Warming Charm, radiating from blankets that felt smooth but not quite soft.

I took a breath – the first breath I could remember actively taking in… in forever. The smell of sharp, artificial cleanliness, not clean like an open-air garden after a shower, or the smell of fresh linens. It was Charm-clean, just like the blankets were Charm-warmed.

It was a struggle to open my eyes. They felt gummy, as though my lashes had been glued together, and the struggle wasn't eased by the sudden influx of light as I finally pried them apart. Bright light assaulted me and I immediately clamped my eyelids shut once more.

When I finally managed to blink them open them again, the light was still almost blindingly bright but not abusively so. I peered around me and what I saw made my stomach sink.

The room I was in, positioned at the very centre, definitely belonged to a hospital. I recognised it from the many times Dad has found himself closeted in similar rooms from some 'minor' happenstance at work. Pale green walls were broken by a single wide painting of rippling and boringly plain scenery. Swirling grey-patterned vinyl ringed the narrow bed on which I lay, propped up at an angle to afford a view of the room. From my recline I could see the half-closed door into the room, another beside it that I supposed must have led to a bathroom, and a window on the wall directly opposite bordered by grey curtains gathered at either side.

But what really stood out, what made the reality more profound than the artificial smell of cleanliness, was the monitor ticking away at my side. Compared to the Muggle vital monitors, with their colourful squiggles and repetitive beeps that I'd seen in one too many medical shows, these ones were far more discomforting. I'd never felt as such before, and the immediacy of my dislike was attributed to the very fact that I was hooked up to it.

It was a cylinder, a transparent tube containing liquid that looks like nothing if not water with a flutter of bubbles erupting occasionally into the inch of air left at the top of the contraption. The bubbles that arose very obviously from a number of different coloured and sized orbs of luminescent light drifting and bouncing off the walls of the tube. Magic stabilisers, I remembered Mum calling them the first time Dad had been hooked up to one. She'd sounded relieved to describe how they ensured he was both physically and magically stable by taking constant readings from the little wrist cuff, sending ripples of magic down the tube in little pulses of light to remedy any abnormalities. I used to share Mum's relief, even finding the lights beautiful in a way more superficial than the comfort afforded by the medical support they provided.

Not now. Now I wanted nothing more than to take it off. And the reason for that flared once more as a little pulse of bluish light filtered down the attaching tube, flaring light into the little transparent wrist cuff for a moment before fizzling into my skin beneath. It left an almost nauseating lurk that sparked up my arm, zapping through me instantaneously but gone in the next instant. I didn't like it, even knowing that it was likely attached for a very good reason.

I didn't like it at all.

Lifting heavy fingers to pick at the cuff – it didn't come off but then of course it didn't – I frowned. Hospital. I was in a hospital, likely St. Mungo's, which meant that someone had obviously taken me there because I was… sick? I wasn't sure. The last few days were like a hazy memory to me, as dense and clinging as the weeds and rushes in the shallows of the Black Lake. I remembered going to Hogsmeade with Scor. I remembered flying with him in the afternoon. I remembered procrastinating from studying Astronomy with Ozzy after… wait, no, maybe that was before. Was it before? And was Hogsmeade on Saturday or Sunday, or was that maybe the week before too?

I frowned more deeply, shaking my head. It seemed to rattle slightly, jumbling my memories further and adding a burst of disjointed feelings to the mix. Satisfaction, happiness, and relief mixed with frustration, anger and… that all-too familiar feeling that I attributed to anxiety. The gut clenching, the hot-cold assault of my entire body, the dizziness and ache in my chest when my racing heart reached a point of exhaustion yet still ploughed on with its intense hammering. I hated that feeling. But what was worse was not knowing where it had come from.

Something… to do with my waking up in hospital. I wasn't an idiot. At least, I didn't think I was. Something that got me so anxious was probably pretty terrifying too. Had I fallen off the broom when I went flying with Scor? There was a reason I disliked the idea of flying, and more than just because I was sort of a lazy person who objected to the very notion of exercise. Flying was unsafe, dammit!

But no, I didn't remember falling. I didn't remember landing the broom either, granted, but surely I would have remembered _falling_. And beside, that brief and passing memory of anxiety was broad, stretching, not acute enough to be attributed to something as immediate and confronting as a minor yet potentially fatal fall.

Picking at the resisting cuff, I pondered the dilemma. For a good half an hour, too, if the clock situation directly across from me, above a little round table and matching round and likely uncomfortable chairs was any indication. The hands read ten forty-five when I glanced at it for the second time. I likely would have gone on pondering, scratching my head with growing frustrating and not a little bit of novel anxiety thrown into the mix – because what the hell had happened? – if the door had not swung open at ten to eleven.

James filled the doorway. He looked… well, he looked like shit, to be honest. His dark hair, always artlessly mussed, had made a fair attempt at mimicking road kill, an impression only enhanced by the dark circles under his eyes and several days of stubble painting his cheeks. The entire ensemble of his outfit appeared to be extending the theme of wrinkles and stains from repeated wear, something I found confusing in itself because James always kept himself well-groomed. It was a product of being in the limelight so often with his quidditch career – and his very obvious link to the Potter family – and he took pride in it as Dad never did. Now he just looked a mess. And worn. Very worn.

I would have usually made some derogatory comment, a gentle jibe to tease him for him disheveled state. Except that the knowledge of my surroundings, coupled with how much I knew he cared for me, suggested that my current status was likely the cause for it. That felt terrible.

He wasn't wearing his glasses today, so when he paused in the doorway and turned his eyes upon me, I was treated to the full, cliché response of eyes widening, rapid blinking and jaw popping open. "Al…"

I blinked back at him slowly, urging a wobbly smile onto my face that I'm sure fell far short. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Hey, Jimmy. What… what's up?"

My voice sounded terrible. It was feeble, barely more than a croak, and I was immediately made aware of the dryness of my throat. 'Parched' didn't even begin to cover it. Swallowing did bugger all, too.

The door handle clinked slightly in James' hand, but that was the only motion he made save to continue with his stuttering blinks. I was almost ready to pat myself down and make sure I wasn't transparent; he truly did look like he'd seen a ghost. After a moment, a sad sort of smile drew just slightly across his face. "You haven't called me Jimmy in years."

I attempted a smile in reply, but was fairly certain I failed just as spectacularly as he had. "Not since I was eleven," I croaked. "You told me I wasn't allowed to when I got to school 'cause you didn't want everyone knowing the nickname we gave you at home."

James nodded, his smile still sad, as sad as the slight tilt of his head. "Yeah. Why the hell did I ever do that?"

I shrugged, as much because I didn't comprehend it myself – and hadn't given much thought to it, honestly, simply begrudgingly accepting my older brother's wishes – as because I couldn't push myself to speak anymore. James didn't appear to need a reply. Finally, loosening his death grip on the door handle, he edged into the room. He took slow, deliberate steps, almost warily, as though he approached some sort of flighty animal.

Which made his next motion startling. As soon as he was at my bedside, that wariness disappeared. In a collapse so fast that I didn't see it coming at _all_ , I abruptly found myself wrapped in the firm, engulfing embrace of my older brother. He was a big bloke, bigger than me and not just because he was older. All that quidditch or whatever. I'd heard some people refer to him as sturdy, imposing, even, to fellow sportsmen, but even though he was taller than me he wasn't really _that_ tall.

He hardly seemed like the intimidating figure the papers painted him as in that moment, though. It was with a start, at the sound of his shaking breath and the following sob heaved into my shoulder, that I realised he was… crying? James, my laid-back, cool as punch and utterly blasé older brother, was crying?

"James…" I struggled to utter. It was as much a trial because of my increasingly sore throat as the clasp James wrapped around me.

My attempt only made my brother squeeze me tighter. When he spoke his words were muffled and wet, thick with tears. "Christ, Al. You nearly gave us all a heart attack. You nearly… you…" Another squeeze. "Please, don't ever do that to us again."

I couldn't respond, though not because my voice was pained this time. I had no idea what to say. Instead, I let James hold me in his awkward half-slump across the bed, struggling to find his composure. I just let him, because his words rung hollow and loud on repeat in my ears and I found myself clinging back to him just as fiercely.

What the hell had I done?

* * *

"You don't remember who gave it to you?"

I shook my head in a lie. I couldn't meet Healer Mendez's eyes, couldn't spare a glance for the tall, lanky man, but kept them firmly locked on my hands folded in my lap.

There was a slight pause. "And you've never purchased an illegal drug from another before?"

I shook my head in dissent once more. Another lie, though not technically. I'd never 'purchased' one before, no. Receiving from a jovially sharing fellow junkie was another story entirely.

Mendez sighed. I could hear the scratch of his quill on the clipboard as he jotted down an observation. Swallowing, I glanced sideways at Mum and Dad standing to one side of the bed. I had to flick my eyes back to my hands. It hurt to look at them.

"And you remember nothing of the incident of nearly a week ago?"

 _Nearly a week ago._ Bloody hell, that had shocked me when I'd first heard it. I'd been out like a light for five days, or there about. Unconscious and on the brink of heart failure. And all because of a split decision, the impulsive notion to induce temporary forgetfulness.

What an idiot I was.

I did remember. Abruptly, an instant after Mendez had told me what had happened, explained to me that my hospitalised state was a result of the combined and volatile effects of MA with my Harproot. It had all rushed back to me in an instant, a cacophony of images that assaulted my mind and left me blanked to the surrounding world for an instant.

Ainsley and Dillon's guilty shuffling as the mumbled dubiously.

The stares of my fellow students as I stumbled into the Great Hall.

The blurred captions printed across the page of the Daily Prophet.

Running, fleeing, heart pounding and horrified.

The scent of Harproot and its calming effects, though it wasn't quite enough…

The little parcel of pills. The sparked idea. The taste of chalky dryness on my tongue.

I swallowed in sympathetic memory of that taste. Yes, I remembered it all. But I couldn't tell Mendez that. I'd always had a problem with authority figures, even those that were less 'authority' and more committed to my personal longevity. Pomfrey I'm sure would have a word or two to say about that. He'd frowned and grumbled on more than one occasion when, after the semi-annual medical check inflicted upon all students was conducted, I remained resolutely silent as to the memory-image of my dramatically fluctuating anxiety, of my similarly fluctuating weight levels. And of the seemingly erratic changes to the magical graph he extracted of my physiological and nervous systems' activity that I _knew_ was a result of taking Harproot, or Happy Gum, or Sparkies…

I don't like telling. I've always worried that somehow any information I provide would be used against me. Which was stupid, really, considering that such worries extended to medical practitioners, but I couldn't help myself. It was habit by now, and one I had a hard time urging myself to break.

So no, I didn't tell Mendez that I remembered. I kept my gaze firmly lowered from the man's dark, kindly eyes and firmly set jaw and stuck to my story. Forgetfulness. Ha. How ironic.

Except that I didn't manage to remain mute on every subject.

With a sigh, Mendez flipped at his sheets in what I could only assume was to check for something. "Your friends and family suggested that you have perhaps made an chronic habit of drug use. Is that correct?"

I swallowed once more. My throat still hurt, regardless of the fact that a potion to remedy such had already been taken alongside gallons of water. It probably had something to do with the convulsive nervous seizing it underwent every time I was asked another question. This one I couldn't answer, eyes staring unseeing at my hands again. I could feel my nails picking at one another, that they'd likely be torn to a mess by the afternoon, but I couldn't help myself.

Mendez obviously gleaned an understanding from my silence nonetheless. His quill scratched again. "Perhaps you could explain to me the source of your home-grown Harproot. Or the _Miscanthus_ hybrid? To my knowledge, such subspecies are difficult to come by in European regions."

The Healer's voice was mellow, filled with genuine curiosity, but I cringed at the words. My source? He was asking where I got it from? Shouldn't that be the job of the local law enforcers or something?

Unbidden, I felt my eyes drift towards Dad. He was an Auror, after all. Drug busting isn't exactly his field of expertise, but it was sort of the same department. It was a bad decision. I felt myself cringe further at the expression on his face, the feeble suppression of concern tightening his face and struggling to impress wrinkles into his forehead. Mum's too, I noticed, my eyes naturally drifting towards where she stood at Dad's side. Her mouth was pinched, her face pale and smudged with the marks of sleepless nights. I didn't need to glance to the other side of the bed to know that James and Lily, standing in silent attention, wore the same weariness.

I'd done that. I'd inflicted that upon them. And fucking hell, if that didn't make me the worst son and brother in the history of the world I don't know what did. They _loved_ me and I'd done this to them, had made them worry so badly. And not only that, but there was no accusation from any of them. Absolutely none at all. I don't know if that made things better or worse.

But then Mendez was speaking again, so I didn't get a chance to decide.

"From our assessment, and the statements of your peers, we have deduced that you used Harproot in particular as a depressant of sorts? As an unprescribed medicinal herb to curb instances of anxiety? Is that correct, Albus?"

I was still staring at Mum and so I saw the upwelling of tears in her eyes before she managed to get a hold of herself and quell them. That simple, split-second rush of emotion stemmed my own rising feelings of anger, of unjustified betrayal, towards my friends and family for spilling the beans. Someone had obviously told the Healers about the ins and outs of my using habits, the reality of which basically made Mendez's questions redundant.

That was probably a good thing. I shouldn't be angry with them in the first place. They, like the Healers, were just trying to… help me.

Perhaps it was that realisation that finally got me to talking. "Y-yes."

An almost inaudible sigh of, "Thank you, Albus," from Mendez bespoke relief that I'd broken my silence. That damnable cringe took hold of me again. "How long has this been going on for?"

Mum's eyes. It was her eyes that did me in. That upwelling once more, rapidly quelled with a skill that suggested she'd practiced it many times before. It was the thinning of Dad's lips but the open and forgiving tilt to his head as he met my gaze, telling me I didn't _have_ to speak, that he wouldn't hold it against me. It was the shuffling shift of James' feet on the other side of the bed, the nervous picking of Lily's fingers at the blankets atop my knees as though she was going to pat but aborted the inclination an instant later.

All of it. I guess it could have been seen as a guilt trip but… I couldn't _not_ say something.

"I…" My voice choked; I had to clear my throat to speak above a whisper. "I've been using for years." I had to turn away from Mum, turn back to my hands as she closed her eyes with a pained squeeze. "It's been… about six years."

I could see in my periphery the professional nod Mendez gave my words as he jotted down another note. It was actually easier to look at him now, easier than glancing towards my family. Weird, how quickly that had changed.

Mendez caught my eye and held it, blinking slowly. For a moment, it seemed as though we were the only two in the room. "Now, Albus, I know this is going to be an uncomfortable situation for you, but I'll need to talk to you about your anxiety disorder. Do you think you can do that?"

He spoke to me like I was an infant. Or simple, I wasn't quite sure which. They were one and the same, really. I knew my perception was skewed, that I was resentful because of the intrusiveness as much as anything else, but couldn't help myself. More than that, I hated the term: anxiety disorder. Disorder? Really? I wasn't disordered, I… it wasn't like I was sick or anything. The very thought sent a full body twitch rippling through me. _I wasn't sick_. Clamping my teeth together so tightly it almost hurt, I nodded.

"Would you rather we speak alone?"

I could almost feel the objections rise in Mum's throat, the tensing of Dad's shoulders and the dropping of James and Lily's heads. None of them spoke, however. It was obvious that none wanted to leave, but that my preferences would be put first should I voice them.

I didn't really want my family to hear what I had to say. It was bad enough that the Healer was going to hear and write it all down in that painfully objective, professional way. But I owed it to them. I'd put them through enough these past days. I couldn't send them away, even if the thought of them bearing witness to my confession made me feel sick to the stomach. Slowly, dropping my eyes form Mendez's, I shook my head.

There was a brief pause. I didn't know what to make of Mendez's thoughtful silence; he didn't use his quill to hint at anything and I didn't want to raise my eyes towards him again to check. After a moment, he cleared his throat and spoke once more.

"Alright then. Albus, how long do you think it's been that you've struggled with anxiety?"

I cast a glance towards Mum and Dad again, questioning. Surely they'd have told the Healer about my… problem already. Especially since my friends and family had already spoken up on the matter.

As though hearing my unspoken scepticism, Mendez raised a placating, quill-laden hand. "I know you're aware that you've been spoken for on the subject. I merely wished to hear the story from your own perspective."

Picking furiously at my fingernails, I dropped my chin once more. "I don't know."

"You don't know when it started?" At the shake of my head, Mendez rephrased. "Then perhaps you could tell me when it started to get unmanageable?"

"S'not unmanageable," I mumbled. Even to my own ears my words sounded pathetic, a little pleading.

"Unfortunately, Albus, I can't classify the use of illegal and unmedicated substances as being a healthy mode of management." Mendez actually sounded a little regretful at that. Go figure. "Would you suppose that it became more difficult to deal with stress six years ago? That this was when you started using drugs?"

I hated this. I hated it so much. I wanted to stopper my ears, to close my eyes and curl up into a ball like an armadillo, anything to avoid the twenty questions session. I don't like revealing my secrets. It had taken years for me to get comfortable enough with Ozzy and Rhali to even consider it, and that was with the use of external assistance. With Scor, it was becoming a little easier, but it was still hard. Still uncomfortable, embarrassing, _humiliating_. Couldn't we all just accept someone else's words on the subject, take them as fact, and shunt the situation to the side entirely?

Except I knew that wouldn't happen. I knew it the way that I knew the ingredients of a Calming Draught, or the key features of a receptive flower from stigma to sepal. I'd learned from experience, by committing that experience to memory, and it clung to my mind unshakeably. The only way out was to simply plough on through.

So that's what I did. Gritting my teeth, I strove to settle myself into detachedness. Into a place set deliberately aside from the situation, and answer mechanically.

"Yes, I think so."

"Would you be able to tell me the frequency of your usage?"

"It changes. Depends on how stressed I am."

"At first?"

I shrugged. "Probably about once a month."

"And more recently?"

"At least once a day."

"Oh Al…" Mum whispered, though it sounded more like a moan. I didn't – couldn't – spare her a glance, but saw the motion of Dad's arm wrap around her shoulder. It hit me like a punch in the gut. I stared resolutely at my lap.

"And this was Harproot?"

"Yeah, Harproot. Sometimes Happy… um, the _Miscanthus_ hybrid too, though less frequently."

"Ever together?"

"No. They don't mix well."

"You've tried it?"

"A long time ago."

"When you were experimenting?"

I bit my lip. Ouch. The very word 'experimenting' sounded dirty. I was sure Mendez didn't intend for it to be so, and it was likely just the filter on my own ears that made it such but it still hurt. I had to swallow down a rush of nausea; it settled once more uncomfortably in my gut. Thank God I hadn't managed much for lunch. "Yeah, I guess."

"Do you still engage in such experimentation with various substances?"

I shook my head. "No, not really. I just use what I'm familiar with."

Mendez paused in his questioning. I could see the thoughtful frown on his face, despite the fact my eyes were trained unwaveringly on my hands. "What you're familiar with… your own products?"

Oh crap. I'd hoped to avoid this situation. I really didn't want to talk about the fact that I'd been growing my own stuff, though I'd known it to be unavoidable. Of course they'd ask. I just hadn't expected it to be so early. Worse, where those questions started, other less neutral ones were sure to follow.

But I'd made a commitment. And though it pained me to do so, the image of my little plants seeming to droop pitifully in the back of my mind, I had to reply. _Go with the flow, go with the flow, go with the flow…_ If I backed out now, there would be no picking up where I'd left off. I knew that, too.

"Yeah, I grow my own."

"So they are all plant-based substances?"

The Healer was sounding more like a law enforcer on a bust than a medic. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Yeah, they're all plants."

"How long have you grown your own substances?"

"Since I was twelve." I flinched as another small moan bubbled from Mum. "I don't… really like using things other people have cooked up."

"A wise decision on your part." Mendez spoke softly and with what I felt was genuine kindness. I turned just my eyes upwards to peer at him and was rewarded with a small smile. "There is an appalling amount of impure substances circulating in the Wizarding world these days. The Muggle world too, of course, though such substances are less debilitating to those who possess an active magical core."

I blinked, surprised, and felt my eyebrows rise. Well, I'd never considered that. Mendez nodded at my response, apparently less discrete than I'd intended. "Yes, it's true. But that doesn't mean they're not dangerous in their own right. Only that, should anyone – and I am by no means promoting such activities," Mendez cast a rueful glance towards Dad, who gave a feeble half-smile in response. "But if anyone were to engage in recreational drug use, the source of the obtained substances should be very carefully chosen. Especially potions and chemical brews. There's no knowing what could be thrown into the mix."

I nodded slowly. I already knew that. It was one of the main reasons I only used my own. Which made the impulsive use of the MA so utterly _stupid._ What had I been thinking?

Though, of course, I hadn't been. That was the problem. I hadn't been able to think at all.

"Where do you keep the originals of your sources?" Mendez continued.

Oh, and now we were getting into dangerous territory. I sunk back into the hospital bed warily. "Why?"

"Al, be realistic," Dad spoke up for the first time. He sounded world-worn and weary, his voice more of a heavy sigh than a reproach. "You know we can't let you keep them."

'But…" My throat felt abruptly strangled. I lifted my head, horrified, towards my dad. "But you can't just –"

"Al, please," Mum cut in, her own words wavering. It silenced me like a _Silencio_. My lips clamped firmly shut. Mum's face was tightened into a complex mixture of hardness, determination and tender sympathy. "You know why we have to do this. You _know_ why."

I could only shake my head. My lips felt dangerously close to trembling, and tears to falling along with them. Not my plants. Not my Harproot, my Happy Gum. I'd had both of them for so long, it would be like giving up a much-loved pet. Worse, because I _needed_ them. I blinked rapidly to clear my eyes.

Mendez was glancing between me and my parents, his quill tapping with feather-lightness on his clipboard. When no one else spoke he continued once more. He was all professional Healer again now. "Albus, I'm sorry that this upsets you so, but for your own safety it would be best to remove them from your possession. It is not that you aren't trusted, only that for those suffering from an addiction –"

"I'm not an addict." My voice had begun to waver now.

"You may not perceive it as such, but the heaviness of your dependence and the frequency of your usage suggests –"

"I'm not an addict," I repeated, almost glaring at my hands in my lap once more. "I specifically grew my plants to evict the addictive substances from their composition. I'm not addicted."

Mendez was silent for a moment. The quill began its near-silent tapping once more. The uncomfortable fidgeting that rung through the room was very telling. I didn't bother glancing at anyone; I doubted any could have looked me in the eye right now. I knew how I sounded. I was sure every actual addict sounded the same.

But I wasn't an addict. I wasn't.

"Be that as it was," Mendez finally enunciated quietly. "The reality is that we cannot, with clear consciences, check you out from hospital without the assurance that you are distanced from such an opportunity to relapse. I'm not saying that you would," he hastened to assure me, as though I'd been about to interrupt him, even though I hadn't been, "but it is simply a precautionary measure. And outside of that, I doubt your school would be so lenient as to allow it."

Ah. Yes. School. I could hardly even imagine what was going on there. Did the other students know? All of the teachers would, surely. Weatherwell would be judgemental while pretending not to be, Tyril would probably be his saddened, kindly old self, and the Defence professor Killian would likely be loudly grumbling about how someone could _possibly_ have managed to initiate such a permanent and illegal activity within Hogwarts walls. And Neville. Neville would be heartbroken, especially that I'd used plants.

That thought hurt terribly. More even than the assumption that _"oh shit, the prophet probably knows, and now the whole world probably knows, and Merlin I'm never going to go to uni and my life is over"._ Yeah, that loud bellowing at the back of my mind had grown increasingly prominent over the past few hours.

Of course my plants would be taken off me. If I thought about it realistically, I'd known it since my memories returned to me. I'd hoped for otherwise, but I wasn't so deluded as to think it would actually happen. I'd never be the sort of person that would buy a lottery ticket with the actual hope that I'd win. That would be reaching far too high.

"W-what… what would you do with them?" I asked feebly, eyes still downcast. Silence met my words. That silence was as much of an answer as any awkward reply could be. I bit my lip once more, flinching as my fingers tugged at and tore viciously at a nail. The pain that followed in my fingertips was almost welcome. "Oh."

"Al, I'm sorry, but we have to." Dad forsook Mum's shoulder and sidled closer to my bed. He leant forwards and placed a hand on one of my knees in that awkward Dad way he had, the _"I'm not sure what to do, but I'm trying"._ "And apart from what the school would likely demand, it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the students. Even if you kept them sensibly, to not use them, who's to say that someone else would have the same restraint?"

"Which highlights another topic we have need to discuss," Mendez interrupted. It wasn't a cruel interruption, but that was definitely what it was. He took the opportunity and jumped on it. I lifted my gaze up to his once more. He didn't offer a smile this time. "Albus, would you be able to tell me whom else shared in your activities?"

"No," I blurted out before I'd even had the forethought to consider my reply.

"Albus…" Mum sighed, and I knew from the use of my full name that she was gearing up for a reprimand.

I shook my head decisively. "No. No, I'm not – I'm not going to dob anyone in."

"It's not dobbing, Al," Dad attempted.

Mendez tipped his chin in a nod of agreement. "We would simply be ensuring the safety of your fellow –"

"No." I shook my head again, so hard and fast it actually hurt my neck. "I'm not saying anything. I'll take expulsion first." Bugger them all. I loved my family, but I wasn't going to sell my friends out. Not Ozzy, so calm and casual who honestly seemed to partake in our nights in the Niche from a purely recreational point of view. Not Rhali, who everyone always saw as such a hard-arse but had a fragile bone buried right at the centre, a fragility that benefited from our nights as much as I did.

And not Scor. Definitely not Scor. God, I would _never_ rout out him. It would destroy him - not only his studying career, but his future in his dad's company. How would that look, to have a newbie and son of the CEO as a reputed junkie? And even beyond that, Scor was a role model. He took pride in the image he presented, of the 'play by the rules' prefect, the dedicated student, the ideal pupil and idol to be looked up to. How could he ever live such a label down? Somehow he'd managed to avoid getting tagged with such an admittedly correct assumption as a user alongside the rest of us; I intended to keep it that way. And not just for his sake. I don't know how I would handle it if Scor hated me for telling. That thought wrapped a cold hand around my heart.

"I don't think they'll expel you," Mum broke into my thoughts. I glanced towards her, lost for a moment, before recalling my carelessly spoken words. "Headmaster Tyril is currently in discussion with the Department of Education and his staff, but Neville seems to think –"

"Ginny," Dad cut in, almost warningly. Mum stopped, a flash of annoyance fading quickly to guilt. Then she deliberately sealed her lips.

Mendez was doing his glancing act again, shifting his gaze between us all at once more. "Perhaps this would be something better discussed with your teachers? I believe the school is taking responsibility for the incident?"

Mum and Dad nodded synchronously. Mendez jotted another note on his clipboard. "Alright then, we'll leave that. Now, Albus, if you could tell me…"

He asked more questions. About my Harproot and about its effects. About the variation of those effects and of how it responded to other substances. About the MA I'd taken and what I knew of it, prodding at the supposedly forgotten identity of the person who'd given it to me. I answered as best I could, but that best was purely terrible. Speaking had become difficult once more. Any inclination I'd had towards honesty before had rapidly dwindled with the dual attack of my plants being taken from me and the digging for the names of my friends. I was being frustratingly close-lipped, I knew, but it was that or risk descending into a blubbering mess.

I felt like I'd made a spectacle enough of myself over the past days to avoid that.

Finally, Mendez left. He was a nice enough bloke, even with all of the intrusive questions that made me hate him just a little, but I wasn't sad to see him go. As soon as the door clicked shut upon his departure, it felt as though a weight had lifted from the room. Though the tension was still there, tightening shoulders and quirking lips in downturned thoughtfulness, it was definitely less pronounced than it had been. Like we did so often with issues that were just too much to handle right now, I could almost see each and every one of us setting the messiness of the past discussion to the side. Not abandoned or forgotten, but just left for later.

Lily was the first to make a move. Before even Mum could shake herself loose from the deliberate distancing we'd all adopted in front of the Healer, Lily was upon me. Her arms locked firmly around my neck as I was nearly pulled bodily from my bed into an embrace. I returned the hug as best I could. My little sister was the only one I hadn't had a brief moment to talk to before Mendez came in; she'd arrived moments after him. We weren't all that prone to hugging one another, my siblings and I, but it felt nice all the same. The sincerity of her feelings conveyed by the gesture was even nicer.

"I was so worried about you. We all were; everyone at school was freaking out."

"Everyone?" I mumbled into her shoulder. My words were muffled by her jumper.

Lily pulled away at that, though remained in her seat upon the bed. Her face adopted an expression of understanding and sympathy that immediately made me feel uncomfortable. "Well, not _everyone_ , Al. Me, Rose, Hugo, Roxanne. Lorcan and Lysander. And Rhali, Ozzy and Scor. As for everyone else, I doubt anyone actually knows what really happened. We're all keeping it pretty quiet."

At the mention of Scor's name, I immediately opened my mouth to speak. More than the reassurance of the school's silence on the matter, it was his name that jumped out at me. I don't know what I was going to say, or why it was Scor in particular that triggered such a response. That hasty realisation urged me to close my mouth before speaking.

Lily heard my unspoken words anyway, however, and in an uncharacteristic display of understanding gave me a small smile. "He's… they're alright. Now they are. I messaged Rose and Hugo as soon as Weatherwell came and got me from class this morning. She'll have told them all." She paused, pursing her lips. "I think they'd all just be happy you're alright."

I nodded, attempting and failing a smiling response. Knowing my friends were upset for me hurt just as much as that same knowledge pertaining to my family. I hadn't really expected otherwise; they were my friends, and I wasn't quite so self-pitying and masochistic as to assume that they didn't care for me. But having reality thrown out in the open like that? The punches I'd been receiving in the gut today were continuing to come thick and fast.

I wanted to talk to my friends. Probably more than even the rest of my family still at school; I loved my cousins, but other than the occasional on-again off-again closeness with Rose we weren't all quite as companionable as I think Nana would like to believe we were. I wanted to reassure them, to apologise to Rhali before her scowling reprimands, to receive Ozzy's one-armed hug that spoke more than words. To… I didn't even know what Scor would do, how he would respond, but I wanted that too. Even if he was angry with me, I just wanted to be around them.

I felt another shotgun-speed flash of guilt at that memory of my brief hatred towards everyone that I'd experienced before… before the incident. The events leading up to it were startlingly clear in my memory. Well, after the unexpected and temporary loss of that memory, that was. And I felt terrible for it. Yeah, sure, I didn't really enjoy spending time with people in general, but those token few? I could think of few things better than a night in the Niche with my friends, or an afternoon spent with Neville in the greenhouse.

Or an evening with Scor in the Room of Requirement, amorous or otherwise.

Lily was talking again. Running her mouth, actually, which was fairly typical for her. I was surprised she'd managed to keep silent throughout Mendez's interview, actually. My sister wasn't known for being able to hold her tongue.

James, however, was uncharacteristically quiet. He stood at my bedside and just peered at me sidelong. It was oddly reassuring. Mum and Dad, too. We'd not spoken much since I'd awoken, but they didn't seem capable of it all that much. There was far too much to actually be said, but it was evident that none of us knew where to start. Mum just propped herself on the side of my bed as we all bore witness to Lily's explanation of the ensuing events at Hogwarts, of how Rose had been nagging her incessantly and the Scarmanders demonstrated a remarkably profound concern for ones so vague. Dad did his best to chime in, but I could tell his heart wasn't really in it.

Mine wasn't either. I just sunk into Mum's side when she wrapped an arm around me, dropping my head upon her shoulder. She set up a slow steady pat like one would to a small and disconsolate child. It was actually more comforting than I would care to admit.

"… and you know Killian? Yeah, that bastard, he actually had the balls to come up and ask me how you were."

"Did you maybe think that he was just being sincere in his concern?" Dad suggested. He'd pulled a seat up to my bedside and was leaning with elbows on knees in a weary slump. His face was notably more relaxed then it had been, however.

Lily, her fire reborn and chasing away any lingering melancholy, shook her head defiantly. "You know Killian's just a grumpy old man. There is no way his question comes from a place of compassion."

"I've always found him to be quite agreeable when I've spoken to him," Dad said. I was pleased, in a detached sort of way, to see a small smile touching the corners of his lips.

"Yeah," Lily replied with a huff. "But that's because you always come in the afternoon and Killian's always a few cups less rigid by six at night."

"Six? That's early…"

"I know, right? But me and Layla, we saw last year when we had to come late to pick up our essays for the mechanics of counter curses, and…"

I felt myself easing to the music of Lily's words, to the quiet input of my dad. Even James started to contribute after a while, though Mum stayed silent. We were all deliberately ignoring the elephant in the room, to which I was truly grateful.

We couldn't avoid it forever, though. Not with the issue with the school, with my own situation, with my plants and what would happen in future, with studies and dealing with this 'disorder' and avoiding a repeat incident. It was going to have to be discussed eventually.

"Hey, Mum?"

My murmur was so quiet I doubt anyone but Mum could have heard me. If they did, neither Dad nor my siblings batted an eyelid, continuing with their distracted conversation.

Mum shifted beneath me. I think she turned her head towards me, but I didn't lift my own from her shoulder to check. "Hmm?"

"I'm just…" My voice cracked and I was forced to stop. It was that or risk dissolving into tears.

Mum didn't need me to finish, though. That was one of the best things about mums; they always just seem to know. "It's alright, sweetie. I know. It's alright." And she set up a gentle rock to accompany her pats.

I bit my lip to hold back my tears. It was a near thing, a physical struggle to withhold the emotion rising in my chest. It swelled almost painfully, plugging my throat. Maybe that was a good thing, though. I didn't think I could have found adequate words to say what I wanted to anyway.

* * *

Visiting hours were over and my family had been urged from the premises, much to their obvious dissatisfaction and largely unconcealed distress. Mum had started crying when she finally released me, promising to be back as soon as possible the next morning, and Dad hadn't been far behind. It broke my heart into splinters once more.

I was left very alone. The nurse's assurances as to their proximity "in case I needed something", did nothing to alleviate that feeling. I'd never been partial to company all that much, but found myself wanting it in the small hospital room that felt far too large. I was left to stare blankly at the green wall opposite me, turned white in the darkness of night. That or read one of the books Lily had brought. I'd never felt less like reading in my entire life.

Instead, my fingers trembled, hovering over the letters on my phone. The screen shone brightly in the darkness of the hospital ward. They – the doctors, my parents, James – didn't know how much longer I was going to spend in St. Mungo's. I hoped it wasn't long, and not only because I was growing increasingly uncomfortable around the doctors and their prodding questions.

My friends weren't allowed to visit me at hospital, would have to wait until I was transferred home. Apparently the school thought it best that they not be exposed to such an environment, and besides, I'd almost certainly be out by the weekend anyway. I shuddered at the thought, both at the memory of being told and at what it meant. " _Such an environment_ ". I felt contaminated.

That didn't mean I couldn't still contact them, though. Ozzy didn't have a phone – archaic gnome that he was, the nitwit – but Rhali did, and the one I'd given Scor for Christmas… I wasn't not sure if they'd get a message if I sent one. Hogwarts was largely a dead zone, and had only about half a dozen hotspots scattered randomly about the grounds. I couldn't imagine why either of them would be anywhere near one at nearly eight o'clock at night.

Still, I felt like I had to message them, to send them even a word or two. I'd messaged Rose earlier in the afternoon – mostly because she'd left me a couple dozen herself that were clogging up my inbox – and she'd buzzed me back almost immediately. She'd asked me to message Scor, of all things. As if I wasn't going to.

The real question was how? What could I possibly say after acting the way I had?

Gulping a convulsive swallow, I slowly, hesitantly, tapped at the letters on the screen. My trembling fingers made the entire process take about twice as long as it should have. I felt scared, though of what I didn't know. Scor's anger? His disapproval? His disdain? I wasn't sure if that would be better or worse than the worry that gripped me in not knowing.

_Hey Scor. I'm sorry I didn't message you sooner. To be honest, I didn't know what to say. Still don't, really, so I'm just going to say the first thing that comes to mind._

_Sorry. I'm really, really sorry._

I should have written more. Should have said more. I didn't know what I was apologising for, not really, not when I didn't even know what his response had been, but the guilt that flooded through me when I thought of my boyfriend demanded remorse. My thumb hovered for a moment more over the 'Send' button before I pressed it.

I dropped the phone into the linen cradle in my lap and slumped back, exhausted. I should message Rhali – I _would_ message her – but just not right now. Soon. I needed… a break? After even such a short message, the nervousness that arose within me was draining. Even more tiring after the mentally exhausting assault of the day. I doubted Scor would reply, not tonight and probably not for a while. I couldn't expect him too, not with the shitty reception around –

 _Buzzzz_.

I blinked down at the phone. Scor. It was a message back. An immediate reply. As though he'd been waiting to give it.

My fingers were a fumbling mess as I picked my phone up once more, breath hitching as I flicked the message open. I didn't know what to expect, didn't know if I wanted to look…

 _I don't need to hear you apologise. I don't want to. You don't have to apologise for something like this, Al. Ever. If anything, I should be the one apologising for not being there for you when you really needed me._  
_I'm sorry._  
 _Just please, promise me one thing. Please, please, never do it again. I don't think I'd survive it if you did._

_I love you._

_Scor._

I couldn't read the message a second time. I wanted to, but the tears blurring my eyes made it impossible. My watery gaze was fastened upon the three words at the bottom of the message, the three words that, even without hearing them aloud, I read in Scor's voice.

_I love you…_

It was probably said in the heat of the moment. Probably more sentiment than anything else, triggered by the situation. Yet that simple phrase, almost off-handed and following right behind that which resounded with those from my family, flooded me with a riot of emotions. There were too many for me to know what to do with them.

Dropping my forehead onto the phone with a light _thunk_ , I closed my eyes. For the first time that day, I just let it all sink in. All of it, from the doctor's words to the loss of my plants, from my family's mixed mournfulness and relief to Scor's simple yet stark words.

I was glad in that moment that visiting hours were over. There was no one there to see me finally cry.


	18. My Afternoon of Realisation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so... I feel like I should apologise for the sort of preachiness of this chapter? No, not preachiness but... something like it. It was sort of written at my own crisis point - which I'm sure most people have experienced at least once - and that probably comes through quite prominently. So... sorry? I guess?
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Approaching Godric's Hollow was a very different experience the second time to that I'd undertaken the first. This time I barely even glanced at the white walls, sparing half a glance for the rich sprouting of greenery on the front lawn that had previously been hidden by snow. I was jittery with eagerness, with apprehension, though of an entirely different kind to that I'd felt last Christmas; this time I nearly ached with it.

Behind me, Rhali and Ozzy strode with similar feverishness. There faces, usually so blank and shadowed in their public facades, were tight with apprehension, with Ozzy's jaw periodically clenching and unclenching and Rhali's eyes flashing beneath lowered eyebrows. They'd been that way all morning, the pair of them, since breakfast and continuing two hours later when we'd finally been permitted off school grounds.

With accompaniment, of course.

Mother strode ahead of us. Yes, Mother. Apparently, when Weatherwell had sent a missive to each of our families requesting temporary leave this weekend to visit Al, Mother had replied post-haste with the suggestion that she accompany us to act as an escort of sorts. I'd been in Weatherwell's office, seated to the right of Rhali and Ozzy and receiving very careful instructions that a two year old could comprehend when she'd received the letter back from my mother. The image of the Deputy's eyebrows disappearing into her hairline and her mouth popping open would stay with me for a long time, I'm sure.

It had left me blinking in surprise when Weatherwell had relayed the message. I would likely have continued to be so if not for the fact that a greater surprise had not knocked that unexpected reality down a peg. Because apparently Mother had visited Godric's Hollow before. On a number of occasions, in fact. To my continued incredulity, Mother professed upon picking us up and under my careful questioning that she and Ginny Potter had become something of friends in the past months. It was no wonder why; Mother had been the primary supporter – and an enthusiastic one, at that – of my relationship with Al. It really shouldn't have been so surprising that she would endeavour to push herself onto the Potters, sliding into their good graces. She was good at that. I still wouldn't put it past her to have planned out a wedding. Father had told me she'd had the ceremony practically booked for years and had been heartbroken with I'd confessed that what I'd had with Winona would not, in fact, blossom into marriage.

At first I'd thought that the relationship between Al and I was astounding. Unexpected. Unlikely to the extreme. But the wives of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy becoming friends? That was something else entirely. How Mother managed to keep her friendship with Al's mother out of the public eye was a mystery to me. I'd have to ask her sometime.

Not today, though. Since setting out from the school, my attention had been focused entirely upon one thing: seeing Al. We'd messaged one another on Friday night, though only once, and throughout the day yesterday as I'd hunkered down on a receptive hotspot to maintain the tenuous thread of contact. It had been a physical strain being unable to visit him on Saturday, knowing that he was awake and moved back home. But the school and its Responsible Adults wouldn't allow it; they informed me that I must wait until Sunday, when the visit was scheduled. Rose had caught me in the morning just before she'd left, filling me in in clipped words that today was the 'family day'. I didn't anticipate how much that hurt.

The messages Al and I had exchanged had held little enough by way of content and only superficial reassurances. It wasn't enough. I felt the desperate need to simply see Al for myself. I _needed_ it. Something inside of me wouldn't fully accept his wellness until I witnessed it with my own eyes.

That, and there was the issue with the message I'd sent. Of the confession of my Love. True, it had been written in the heat of the moment, when I'd been sagging in relief that Al was actually awake enough to message me. I couldn't summon up even the dregs of the irrational and selfish resentment I'd felt simmering beneath the surface of my composure all week. I was just so relieved. Enough that I'd spouted out the word 'love' before I'd really considered it.

Not that I didn't mean it – I did, and that reality reasserted itself every second of the day. But the silence from Al on the subject, on the Word, left me nauseous with nerves. I'd never been physically sickened by a thought before, not until I'd met Al. This was a new experience for me.

I didn't like that one in particular one bit.

I was fidgeting in my step with the desire to slip around my mother as she lifted the hem of her robes to climb the short steps up the veranda. It was a fight to stand still as she rearranged her skirts – honestly, she _had_ to be taking her time on purpose, just to vex me – and reached a delicate finger forwards to press the doorbell. A chime rang through the house, distant and tinkling familiarly. Barely a minute had passed before the sound of footsteps down the hall indicated a recipient of our arrival.

Ginny Potter opened the door with a smile. I guessed that was a thing with the Potters, to always smile when opening the door. Al did it too. It was obvious that it was a bit of a strain, though. While Ginny didn't seemed particularly worried or stressed in that moment, there was weariness in the set of her shoulders, a wanness to her face and a slight dimness to her eyes that bespoke sleepless nights and emotional exhaustion.

But she did smile. And that smile I found reassuring.

Mother stepped forwards the moment the door opened. In a display of fond familiarity, she immediately reached for one of Ginny's hands wrapped it in both of her own. I couldn't see her expression, behind her as I was, but I could envisage it anyway. It would be calm, compassionate, a small smile tilting her lips and her eyes soft. Most people generally attributed my mother – and just about every Malfoy – with coldness and aloofness. If only they knew.

"Ginny, dear, how are you?" Mother filled the doorway and nearly fell through when Ginny took a step backwards to welcome them in. Far from the surprise that immediately sketched itself across Rhali and Ozzy's faces, Ginny's flooded with warm affection and weary gratefulness that seemed to actually draw some of the paleness from her cheeks.

"Hello, Astoria. I am quite alright, thank you. Just…" she gave a shrug, "tired."

"Understandably, of course," Mother clucked, bustling into the house with far more bluster than her slender frame would suggest was possible. She didn't spare a glance over her shoulder as she beckoned my friends and I after her. "I've wanted nothing more than to trip to St. Mungo's these past days, I can assure you."

Offering a welcoming smile over Mother's shoulder to Rhali, Ozzy and I, Ginny closed the door behind us. "That's sweet of you, Astoria, really. But honestly, I doubt anyone could have really done all that much. They probably wouldn't even have let you into the room." She heaved a heavy sigh that encompassed her weariness wholly. "I'm just glad the worst of it seems to be over for now."

Mother's face became shrouded more thickly in sympathy. "I'm sure you would be. How is Albus?"

Ginny glanced tellingly up at the roof overhead. "He's… better. I think he's feeling better being home. Still very tired; he slept for most of the day yesterday, even when Ron and Hermione brought the kids over." Ginny turned towards me – or, well, my friends and I – once more and offered another small smile. "He's a bit more with it today, though. You can head upstairs if you'd like. He's in the sitting room."

"Thank you, Ginny. That'd be great," Ozzy thanked her from behind me. I made a noise of agreement.

"Can I get any of you anything? Some tea and biscuits, maybe?" At the unanimous shaking of our heads, Ginny nodded. "Alright, then. Call me if you need anything. Tea, Astoria?"

"Yes, thank you, Ginny. I'll get it myself," Mother offered, already turning down the wide, brightly lit hallway towards what I could only assume was the direction of the kitchen. She acted like she owned the house, which was fairly typical of Mother. The fond, knowing smile on Ginny's face as she slipped past me in Mother's wake suggested she hardly minded. The pair disappeared through the doorway to the sound of muted conversation.

I shared a glance with Rhali and Ozzy. Well. That was that, then. I'd wondered if Mother might want to fuss over Al; she did have something of a soft spot for him, after all, and I thought it was only that she had deemed it improper to impose that she hadn't already stopped by the house, if not St. Mungo's itself. I wouldn't have put it past her to seat herself at Al's side and offer her roundabout, saccharine-sweet and formal questioning of his wellbeing. I knew from experience that such a confrontation was more intimidating than being grilled by a drill sergeant.

"Shall we…?" I pointed upstairs. Rhali spared me a 'well, obviously' roll of her eyes before slipping past me and starting up the stairwell. She took the steps two at a time and didn't glance behind her to ensure Ozzy and I followed. The same old Rhali, returned from her unexpected and unprecedented bout of hysteria. I can't say that I didn't see her differently now after witnessing that breaking down of her walls. I'd always suspected she wasn't quite as hard as she let on, but now I had proof. Proof that Rhali would undoubtedly deny within an inch of her life.

The interior of the Potter house was as welcoming and homely as the exterior suggested. Pales walls sat atop half-wall panelling of dark timber in a classical offset, contrasting to the pale carpet beneath our feet. Pictures, both normal and

Static, lined the walls, the faces of the Potters and their extended family beaming at me as I alighted the stairs after Rhali. I saw a scattering of images of Al in a variety of ages, each one smiling shyly, or sarcastically, or long-sufferingly at the camera in a way that I found completely characteristic of him in each persona. Lily featured just as prominently, as well as James, and I saw a couple of pictures of Rose and Hugo, more Weasleys and even one of my cousin Teddy – his hair was grass green in that one. Each were illuminated by Muggle lights embedded like tiles on a mosaic in the ceiling, casting a warm, comfortable glow upon everything below them.

It wasn't like my own house. Malfoy Manor was, in a word, grand. Whereas the Potter's house, while respectably large, featured mostly modest sized rooms that I peered briefly into as we passed along the upstairs hallway, the Manor appeared to have been built to hold a party in each space. There was none of the cosy warmness of the Potter house; the closest that came was probably the third floor living room that my mother had furnished for just such a purpose. Or perhaps my own rooms, but even then my sparsely outfitted suites in contrasting colours lacked the lived-in quality of Al's house. Everywhere I turned were very visible signs of habitation, signs that the house elves in my own house would immediately erase.

A towel thrown over the balustrade.

A single slipper wedged under the door of the bathroom we passed.

A mangled toy mouse that obviously belonged to the cat that lay curled very pointedly in the middle doorway of what I could only assume from the disorder and sprawling school supplies was Lily's room. Al's would have had plants in it, I knew.

There was even a small stain of a child's handprint on the white wall just above the panelling, obviously a simple passing smear but just as obviously left there deliberately. I found myself smiling slightly as I walked past it and wondered if it might have been Al's. It didn't invoke the disdain I would usually feel at such a display of 'messiness.'

My house didn't have any of that. For the first time I actually found that to be a detriment.

Rhali led us with deliberate steps, obviously acquainted enough with the layout of the house to know where she was going. At possibly the furthest point from the front door she paused in another doorway. It was a very conscious and feigned slouch and huff that she offered to the unseen occupant of the room. "Finally found you. Are you trying to hide yourself up here?"

"Hardly," Al's voice replied. "The upstairs TV is just the only one that's linked in to WEN."

I felt my chest tighten at the words. They were so casual, so normal. I had to swallow down an upwelling of emotion in my throat. What was this? Surely not another sob fest. I'd fallen prey to waterworks once this past week; that should set me up for the next few years, at least.

Rhali, in her own display of casualness, slouched into the room. I couldn't follow her fast enough, with Ozzy right beside me. We stepped into a small, cluttered room and in an instant my eyes were drawn to Al.

As Ginny had suggested, he still looked tired. He still looked pale, too – too pale to be anything but sick. There was that faint blueness to his skin, the slight purpling to his lips that might have been overlooked as being mildly hypothermic to an outside observer. An impression that would have only been enforced by the thick, too-large jumper that drooped over his fingers and the loose slacks bunched at his knees.

But that was all. Besides that paleness, the tiredness, he was very much my Al. From the steady green of his eyes to the illogical strip of dyed fringe that hung loose from his half up-do. Even the recline he posed, stretching like a cat along the chaise lounge, was so typically him; he was, naturally, upside down, with his feet propped on the back cushions where his head should and head nearly hanging off the end barely a foot away from the quietly chattering Muggle television.

He was my Al, and thank Merlin he was very much alive.

I didn't think I'd fully believed it until that moment, yet seeing him as he offered us all a small smile, pushing himself upright, solidified the reality of it. He was _alive_. I nearly sagged where I was standing in sheer relief.

Rhali had already thrown herself on the couch beside him before I'd fully regained my senses. She didn't beat around the bush, that girl, and with typical bluntness slumped back in her seat, folded her arms across her chest, and scowled at Al. "I hope you're happy with yourself. You realise you just about gave me a heart attack, don't you?"

I cringed inwardly. The Slytherin girl didn't hold back. Opening my mouth to reign her in, I was stopped at the last minute by a pat on the shoulder from Ozzy. Glancing towards the tall boy, I raised a questioning eyebrow to him that he only replied with a crooked smile. He stepped past me and casually threw himself onto the end of the chaise lounge beside Al. "Really, Rhali? Does you petulance know no bounds?"

"I think we established she's a little unrestrained in that department years ago," Al smirked sidelong at Ozzy. Ozzy returned the smile in kind before leaning into Al and wrapping an arm around his neck, tugging him towards him in a one-armed hug. Al let him, and neither commented nor drew away when Ozzy pressed a kiss onto the side of his forehead. Surprisingly, I didn't feel the slightest tinge of jealousy; the gesture was filled purely with affection and relief, a relief that mirrored my own to such a degree that I could feel nothing but empathy. That acceptance persisted even when Ozzy whispered something into Al's ear for him alone. Al's smirk softened into a smile and, nodding his head, he wrapped one arm back around Ozzy and returned the embrace.

And then, as though an announcement had been made, it was my turn. Very obviously my turn, from the way that all three of them turned with varying speeds towards me. I hadn't moved from my position beside the door, left in what I now realised was a rather awkward pose of waiting.

I couldn't move though. Something had glued my feet to the floor. Slowly, gradually, where once only relief had filled my thoughts, they turned instead towards the approaching situation. Towards my own reunion of sorts with Al. To being faced with the reality of what I'd sent in my message to him two days before. And suddenly, with the looming uncertainty of Al's wellbeing erased, that reality became far more daunting and immediate.

What was I to expect? I'd told him I loved him, and though he hadn't said exactly as much back, I'd been under the impression that he felt at least a little of the same feelings. It had been a bit unnerving that Al hadn't replied with _exact_ similarity, but then Al had always been less open with deep, sincere displays of emotion. Maybe he was just too uncomfortable in saying as much?

Except that maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe his kind, affectionate replies, the professions of "wish you were here" or that "I was there", was merely pity? It was foolish of me to be so concerned with such a thing when Al's life had literally been dangling over a precipice, but I couldn't shake my uncertainty, couldn't assume the confidence that I'd lived and breathed for the majority of my life. I was a decisive person. Perhaps slow in reaching those decisions, but when they were made I acted upon them. And when my decisions couldn't be acted upon due to those of another?

 _That_ was unnerving.

Al was the first to move, though. As though hearing my thoughts, the reasoning for my inability to move, he dropped his arm from Ozzy's waist and rose to his feet. We met one another's eyes for a moment and… I didn't know what to expect. Hi? Thanks for messaging me? That was terribly unnecessary and far too soon for our relationship and can we just pretend it didn't happen? Or worse, an awkward laugh and a pat on the shoulder that would speak a thousand words of that awkwardness and gave me my reply anyway.

Al did none of that. I don't know if that fact was more unexpected than the reality or not, for I never would have expected him to hasten across the room and wrap himself around me either. Displays of affection weren't a foreign concept between us but other than that one time I'd broken our unspoken agreement we'd never done so in public. And in front of Rhali and Ozzy could, I suppose, be construed as a live audience.

So no, I didn't expect the hug, but I was far, far from rejecting it. The feel of Al's warm body against me, suddenly in my arms as they drew themselves automatically around him, was the most satisfying feeling in the world. The sound of his breaths were like music to my ears simply because he was breathing. And, damn me, I was choking up and couldn't help it because it both ached sorely and eased every pain that had ever touched me. I never wanted to let him go. And I definitely didn't need any further words of reassurance. Such a thing hardly seemed necessary, not now.

"Merlin, I'm so… I'm so…"

"I know," Al mumbled into my chest. "I'm sorry, Scor. I'm so sorry I –"

"Why are you apologising to me? Don't be stupid."

"I'm pretty sure that I have just cause to have confidence in my own stupidity right about now."

I chuckled with little humour. It was with sad more than anything. "Not stupid. It just… happened."

Al was silent for a moment before sniffing. It was then that I realised he was as choked up as I was. "Yes. Just happened."

We could have stood there all day, I thought, with only the canned laughter and scripted conversation blaring from the television for accompaniment. I certainly would have been happy to, and I think Al would have too, given that with each passing moment his hold around my waist only squeezed tighter and tighter. I could actually believe that he never wanted to let me go either, and that was reassuring on a whole knew level.

It was Rhali, though – because of course it was Rhali – who finally interrupted us. "Not that this isn't lovely and beautiful and so sweet I almost want to puke, but Al? Scor? Really?"

I lifted my head from where it rested against Al's, glancing over his shoulder towards the Slytherin girl even as Al loosened his hold on me just enough to glance himself. Her face was an odd mixture of fondness and disgust, and she seemed to want nothing more than to sink into the couch beneath her. Huh. I never took her as one to be embarrassed about that sort of thing, but then…

Ozzy, on the other hand, was openly smiling at Al and I. That in itself was sort of strange. I'd never really come to terms with the fact that he simply accepted our relationship, accepted that I filled the shoes he'd wanted for himself for years, but he somehow managed. And sparing him a glance, I saw not even the regret that which had so often shadowed his expression over the past weeks. He just seemed… happy for us. Sincerely happy.

What a genuinely decent individual Ozzy is. It was a marvel – a much appreciated marvel – that Al hadn't fallen for such devotion.

"Rhali, I've always thought that you lacked the gene for tact. Now I truly believe I have proof," Ozzy admonished, slumping back onto the chaise lounge and prodding her with his foot. He'd somehow lost his shoes somewhere in the past few minutes and I couldn't see for the life of me where he'd abandoned them to.

"Don't touch me with your stinky feet," Rhali grumbled, batting his socked toes away. "And how have you not realised this already? Tactless is my middle name."

"I thought it was Marian," Al said as, taking a step back and slipping his hand into mine, he drew us both towards the couch. We seated ourselves beside Rhali, forsaking the chaise lounge to Ozzy who looked to be firmly grounded for the afternoon.

"Marian's a pathetically simpering middle name. It's hardly appropriate for me."

"I think it's pretty," I teased, just for the glory of being the subject of Rhali's infamous glare. She fulfilled that desire accordingly. It didn't faze me in the slightest. I doubted very much could at that moment.

"Pretty is for pansy's and flower boys."

Ozzy snorted. "What the hell is a flower boy?"

Picking with casual distractedness at one of the thick braids – dreadlocks, really – hanging over her shoulder, Rhali shrugged. "Basically a pansy."

"I think you made that up."

"I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You always spout such crap, Rhali."

"Look it up, idiot," Rhali shot back, swinging her own foot towards Ozzy in a return kick of her own. "Oh wait, your technologically illiterate, aren't you? So you actually are an idiot."

"Below the belt, Rhali," Al murmured at my side, though I think he was too quiet to be heard by either of them. His words were no less accurate, however, for Ozzy's eyes flashed as though taking up a challenge.

"I am not. I know technology."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

"Ozzy, you don't even have a phone."

"So? Scor didn't have one until Al gave him his for Christmas." Ozzy gestured towards me to emphasise his statement.

"I can hardly be blamed for that," I defended myself. "My parents are backwards purebloods."

"Yeah, and even he actually knew _how_ to use one. He just didn't have one himself." Wow. Rhali was actually on my side for once. I felt unexpectedly satisfied by that knowledge.

"I can use things! I know how to work a TV."

"Yeah, you just don't know anything that's _on_ the TV."

"I've watched May Day Blues."

"Ozzy, that show stopped playing about three years ago after one season," Al interrupted. He sounded faintly apologetic for taking up the battle against our friend.

Ozzy frowned. "Hey, don't you jump on the bandwagon too."

"It's the truth, Ozzy," Al sighed with mock sorrow.

"No, really. I know…" Ozzy glanced towards the television. "I know this one, I think. I recognise that guy with the beard."

"That's because he's on every Muggle billboard in London, Ozzy," Rhali snorted. "Even though he can't act for shit. Al, what _are_ you doing watching day time TV? The Day of Tomorrow? Really?"

I couldn't help but smile at the ensuing banter. Just like that everything seemed to have slipped back to normalcy. A brief reunion, affection conveyed and regrets aired, and we were back to the easy camaraderie we'd adopted for the past few months. And if we weren't exactly in the Niche, well… I glanced around the little sitting room, running my eyes over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with papers and tomes and overflowing cupboards lining the walls. No, it wasn't the Niche, but it was certainly comfortable enough as it was. And with all four of us barely attending to the chattering of the television in the background, too absorbed in superficial exchanges of jibes and teasing, it was so comfortable I could have almost fallen to sleep in the ambiance.

It didn't last though. The serious discussion had to arise eventually, what with the very nature of our communal visit at the Potter house. And arise it did, though not until almost half an hour after our arrival. Our chatter had died down naturally to an occasional murmur and half-hearted exchange and I found myself actually watching the program on the screen with half an eye. It was both dramatic and boring enough to incite one to pick their eyes out.

"So…"

Like a whip crack, Al's words immediately drew my attention. It was all in his tone. A brief glance at Rhali and Ozzy, attending with a sidelong glance and falsely nonchalant gaze respectively, indicated they realised the same. The talk. It was always going to happen, no matter how any of us wanted to avoid it. I was just glad that Al felt comfortable enough to bring it up himself; it would have felt wrong for me to do so.

So I waited. And Ozzy and Rhali waited. And finally Al continued.

"So you know what happened?"

The tension rippling off of him was almost palpable in the air. I would have been able to feel it even it he hadn't been sitting practically on top of me, a happy arrangement that had simply happened and that I was far from dissuading. His nervousness tightened him to rock hardness and I was made blatantly aware once more of the sheer, overwhelming power of Al's battle with anxiety. As if the most recent turn of events wasn't enough of an indicator.

"Yes, we know," I replied, my voice low and more soothing than I'd actually intended. The small, grateful smile Al flashed me told me that it didn't go unappreciated, though. He actually seemed to ease slightly with the knowledge that he didn't have to provide a complete explanation.

Sinking into me slightly, he sighed. "Right, but, um… how much?"

"Pomfrey wasn't all that informative when he told us," Ozzy muttered, his eyes falling to his lap.

"But we could pretty much deduce what had happened for ourselves," Rhali added. Her voice was as distant as her gaze fastened upon the commercials flashing across the television screen, but I was under the distinct impression she was far more attentive than she pretended to be.

"Which is?" Al asked, turning his attention to the pair of them in turn. There was a note of nervousness in his voice again, of dread, which I didn't like at all. I settled my arm loosely around his waist by way of reassurance. He immediately clamped his fingers around it as though it was a lifeline.

"The MA with the Harproot," Ozzy supplied. He flicked his gaze up to meet Al's for a moment before dropping it once more. "It was pretty obvious, actually, to anyone who knew the situation."

"Which the professors didn't," Rhali muttered. She hadn't blinked once since Al had brought up the subject. It was just a little disconcerting.

I felt Al shift slightly, heard him swallow audibly. "You could guess?" Ozzy and Rhali nodded and Al swallowed once more. "Would other people –?"

"No," I cut in, offering a reassuring squeeze of my arm. "No one has. Or if they have they're keeping quiet on the subject."

Al glanced up at me from where he'd sunken into his seat. His expression was guarded yet curious. "Why? Why would they do that?"

I shrugged, attempting to appear blasé and comfortable with my assumption to enforce that feeling upon Al. "Does it matter? I suppose it's for the same reason that no one told that you three have been using for the past six years. Even though it is a widely known fact."

"I always wondered why they did that," Ozzy mumbled to himself. Very much to himself, I realised, as he obviously wasn't looking for a reply. I provided him with one anyway.

"I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps it's got something to do with teen conspiracy?" That elicited a small smile from them all. Rhali too, even if hers was more of a smirk than anything. "I'm not sure. But at least we can be grateful for that."

"So none of you have been dobbed in?" Al asked, casting his gaze around at the three of us. "You're not suspended too?"

"You're suspended?" Rhali sat up straight in her seat, finally drawing her false attention from the television.

I found myself tensing, a frown settling on my forehead. "Please tell me you're joking. After everything that happened –"

"I'd say I got off lightly." Al widened his eyes at me meaningfully, raising an eyebrow. "I grew illegal drugs in a school, Scor. What did you expect?"

"How long?" The thought physically pained me. I knew I would have been positively mortified had I been exposed to any sort of suspension, temporary or as a stepping-stone to expulsion. And Al, for all his begrudging attitude towards academia, would be at least partially the same.

"Four weeks," Al answered, pursing his lips. He paused for a moment, dropping his chin and glancing at me through his fringe. "But I don't know if I'll be coming back this term anyway. Mum and Dad think it's better to get everything sorted out now, you know?"

My throat tightened. If it were happening to _me_ , I'd surely have emptied the contents of my stomach onto the floor at the very prospect. Yet even though it wasn't, it was a near thing. "What, ah… what are you -?"

"- going to do about school?" Al shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly, but it trembled just slightly, giving his game away. "I'm still going to study. Keep up with my homework and stuff, and there's tutors and all that Mum and Dad have looked into to help me. I won't fall too far behind. I hope." He bit his lip. "But I'm probably looking at potentially staying out of school for the rest of the year. That's, um… that's what Mum thinks."

I had nothing to say to that. I didn't really know how to respond. That would be… that would be _terrible_. Seventh year was so important, and though I knew Al didn't quite share my general love of learning, it wasn't as though he disliked school. Far from it in the case of Herbology, and he was actually a highly competent wizard when he wanted to be. More than that, he had plans. Plans for his future, a future that relied on how well he did in his studies. I felt a tidal wave of sympathy cocooned in horror rise within me; as if Al didn't have enough difficulties handling stress, this had to be added on top of it.

And though I understood where he was coming from, understood realistically why he stood up for the teachers and their justification for suspending him, I couldn't help but resent them for it. For Al and for me. I certainly didn't want him to be away from school for the rest of term.

That would fucking _suck_.

We'd fallen into a brooding silence at Al's words, each of us swimming in our own thoughts. It was Al that spoke first once more, drawing us from our muteness. He seemed to be actively pushing aside the encroaching melancholy and even attempted a very feeble smile. "But you guys didn't get routed out?"

Ozzy, Rhali and I maintained our silence for a moment, each of us staring at Al. He resolutely ignored the pointedness of our stares, though, turning towards me expectantly in what appeared to be almost a demand for an answer. Slowly, I shook my head is dissent and he heaved a sigh of relief. "No. They haven't done that either. No one found out. I guess it's because of the –"

"Teen conspiracy thing," Al finished for me, offering another small smile. For all of its feebleness, he seemed to have been lifted of a weight at the knowledge that none of us had been found out, which was as endearing as it was frustrating; he shouldn't have been worried about _us_ in this situation. His own welfare was in a far more compromised state.

"That still doesn't make sense, though," Ozzy interrupted my thoughts. He was still frowning down at his lap as though asking his knees for answers rather than the room at large.

"What doesn't?" I asked.

Ozzy lifted his chin to meet my gaze. His stare was less questioning and more accusatory now. "All of it. I don't understand it. Teen conspiracy? What is that, rebelling against the expectations put to our age group?" He snorted loudly, derisively, in a way more characteristic of Rhali than he. "Yeah, that would make sense, maybe – everyone gets at touch of rebelliousness, I guess – but what about everything else? What about all that with what happened to Al then? What happened to both of you?"

I stared at him uncomprehending for a moment before blinking in understanding. "With our relationship?"

"And with my uni thing," Al murmured at my side.

Ozzy nodded curtly. "Right, that. If they're all so 'fight against the public's expectations', then what the hell was all that about? Why did everyone suddenly up and turn against you?"

Al's shoulders slumped slightly at the reminder and he seemed to draw in upon himself. I could have scolded Ozzy for bringing up the subject, relevant as I knew it was. Biting back me words of reprimand, I leant into Al slightly. When I spoke, it was solely for him, not for Ozzy. "I don't know that. But I suspect it's probably because they're all morons."

Al snorted, urged momentarily from his withdrawal. "That's one way of looking at it."

"It's the only way of looking at it," Rhali denied. She slumped back into her seat once more so far that she was nearly completely horizontal and allowed her eyes to drift back towards the television. "Complete and utter morons. Sheep brained cattle."

"I think that's a conflicting metaphor, Rhali." Ozzy smiled crookedly, shaking his head. His bad humour seemed to retreat slightly at that.

"I don't think so," Al continued thoughtfully. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging half of it from its tie. "I think it's probably just that they're swayed by popular opinion."

"Exactly. Sheep-brained cattle," Rhali reiterated. "They're idiots who can't think for themselves."

"No," Al corrected, speaking with forced slowness. "I mean that they're probably just so hardwired to accept everything that the media tells them to that they don't really consider anything else."

"Exactly. Sheep-brained –"

"Not exactly," Al cut her off before she could even finish this time. "I mean, it's not really their fault. Everyone gets swayed by expectations. I know James initially started playing quidditch because everyone thought he would. Or should. Even though he loves it now, that's where it all started. And half the reason Lily studies so hard is because everyone assumes she's the 'smart one' of the family."

"So you're saying that all of our classmates are basically being brainwashed into thinking a certain way." Ozzy sounded dubious but not entirely disbelieving.

Al shrugged. "I guess you could think of it that way. Everyone always preaches how 'free' our generation is and of 'the opportunities' we have, but a hell of a lot of us still have predetermined roads we're set upon. And I'm not complaining about that or anything," Al held up a hand to quell any objections, though none of us made to make any. "I'm just telling it like I see it."

Like he saw it. And like I saw it too. Al's words rung true in my ears. We'd had similar discussions in the past, but none so blatantly pointing out such specific and personally relevant flaws in Wizarding society. I recognised them for true, as resounding for my own experience. I certainly felt pressured into becoming my father's son, regardless of what I wanted. I had to wonder at times whether what I actually wanted was something entirely different.

I was a decisive person. I always had been. The decision-making process was often long-winded and hazy, and I've been known to flounder and brood and avoid until I reached my decision, which was exactly that had happened when I was confronting the reality of my relationship with Al. But when I made my decision, I stuck to it and would strive to reach an acceptable conclusion to the best of my ability. It was just how I worked.

I'd made the decision to join LeFay Connected a long time ago. That decision had remained strong and unwavering ever since. Ever since, up until now. Because Al, damn and bless him, was making me question it. Just like he'd been forcing me to for months now. And now, bringing up the topic once more, forcing me to consider the weight of expectation and the influence it would have on the long-held belief of my own autonomy, got me thinking that… maybe I wasn't quite so firm in that decision as I'd always considered myself to be.

Ozzy was talking and to my surprise I found I'd missed half of what he'd said by the time I tuned in once more. That in itself concerned me with the depths of the consideration Al had provoked from me. "… doesn't always have to be like that. Rhali's right; it's stupid. They can't expect you to do what you're 'supposed to' any more than I can be expected to…" Ozzy paused, fingers waving in the air as though searching for something. "I don't know, become a mathematician or something."

"Some people just don't have the gift." Rhali shook her head, smirking smugly.

"Shut up, Rhali." Ozzy silenced her with a roll of his eyes. "What I mean is, why should anyone really 'expect' you to do anything but what you want to? I mean, is it really so hard to imagine that you'd want to go to a Muggle uni?"

I felt more than saw Al shrug beside me. "I guess it is. Even though Potter's are supposed to be the darlings of the Wizarding world, people seem to forget a lot of the time that Dad was actually basically raised a Muggle. It shouldn't be that much of a stretch to assume I'd have an interest in that world. Especially with Grandad."

"What about your Grandad?" I asked distractedly. I didn't really care, but I was struggling to draw my thoughts away from their attempt to get away with themselves and back onto the topic at hand.

Al waved away my question. "Oh, Grandad's just a Muggle nut. He loves anything Muggle, though he still sucks at grasping how to use any of it. Try and picture teaching your Dad how to use Inscribed Technology." He nodded his head emphatically at my cringe. "Yeah. Exactly."

"I think you should just be able to do whatever you want," Ozzy reasserted, frowning slightly as though he dared anyone to object. "I mean, honestly. Who's it hurting?"

Who exactly? I didn't know, couldn't think that anyone else in the world save perhaps family should have any right to direct one's own career path. Hypocrite though that may make me, a hypocrite in my own situation, I couldn't see how, logically, that should be fair. "So then… you're still going to a Muggle university."

"Dual university," Al corrected, glancing up at me once more. "And yeah, of course. If I can get into one. Why?"

I shrugged uneasily, turning away from his open expression. "No reason in particular. I just…"

"What?"

Wonderful. Now I had the attention of all three of them, trained with overwhelming focus upon me. I shrugged once more. "I just wondered at your inclination to continue with such a pursuit when it obviously distressed you so much. Don't get me wrong, I fully support it, just that I had to wonder: if it leaves you so anxious, and worries you so much when the world responds so negatively to your decisions, how can you keep making those decisions knowing the consequences?"

Silence met my words. Al, Rhali and Ozzy presented identical expressions of blank-faced surprise. None of them spoke, leaving me to struggle with the urge to fidget under their gazes. Letting my eyes drift unseeingly towards the television, I muttered, "I just don't think I'd have the courage to do that, personally."

It was a testament to how comfortable I felt with my friends that, though it made me feel uneasy, as though irritated by an itch, I could confess as much. I was a proud person, I'd admit that much. It felt wrong to confess my failures, to admit that I wasn't as strong as perfection would have me. And yet… with Al, with Ozzy and Rhali, it didn't feel like what I was saying was _wrong_ exactly. That it would make me appear weaker. It was just stating a fact.

Still, it took an effort to shift my gaze towards them once more. This time, each face was wrapped in an entirely different expression to those of their fellows. Rhali's open exasperation clearly indicated she thought me an idiot, while Ozzy's was filled with quiet understanding and sympathy. Strangely enough, it was Al's that I couldn't quite read. Strange in that I would have thought I was the most familiar with him, that I would perceive his thoughts the easiest. Such was not so.

He looked on the verge of utterance. The tightening of his lips, the crossing of his brows and narrowing of his eyes, it all bespoke a fierce passion that he was barely withholding. That was strange, too; he'd been fairly sedate today. Understandably, given both his physical and mental weariness. I wouldn't have blamed him for steadfast silence.

Finally, however, he appeared to shake himself loose of that passion, dropping his gaze from mine and turning a mirthless half-smile to his fingers folded in his lap. When he did finally speak it was in a low voice filled with self-deprecation. "Maybe you're right. But I don't think it's so much a matter of courage." He picked at his fingernails idly. "I just figure I'd rather be miserable with my anxiety and doing what I love than miserable doing something I hated with what was expected of me."

I stared at him for a moment before a snort of a chuckle somehow made it's way from my lips. I shook my head and dropped my forehead onto his temple. "Well, that's one way to look at it I suppose." I pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I tend to think its something rather different, though. Definitely courageous."

Rhali made a retching sound and Ozzy promptly swung his foot at her once more. "Shove off, Rhali. If you don't like what you see, go somewhere else."

I smirked into the side of Al's head and felt a smile spread across his own face as Rhali grumbled and prodded Ozzy right back. "I'm not leaving. I was here before they started all," she flapped a hand towards us, " _that_."

"Actually, I do believe that Al was here first," I murmured into Al's temple. Rhali didn't even spare me a glance of acknowledgement.

Ozzy snorted. "You don't have a romantic bone in your body, do you, Rhali?"

"Nope. I most certainly don't. And I have every intention of remaining single and proud for the rest of my life."

"You're jeopardising any possibility before it even gets the chance to arise, Rhali," Al reasoned.

Rhali waved her hand at him again, though it looked more like she was smacking at the air then brushing the words. "And that's exactly the way I like it!"

"Where's your passion, Rhali?" Ozzy teased, leaning towards her with a grin spreading across his face. "What happened to those raging hormones of youth?" He got a shoed foot in the face for his efforts.

"I have passion. Just not for romance."

"For maths?" Al and I guessed, speaking in synchrony. We shared a grin.

"Exactly. Cold, hard, logical and complete-able. Perfect."

I shook my head. "That's a rather depressing way of looking at it. 'Complete-able'? Why would you want something you feel so passionate about to end?"

Rhali rolled her eyes towards me, sighing, and spoke in slow tones as though addressing a simpleton. "Be- _cause_. If there's nothing to work _towards_ then there's no point in _working_."

"Have you ever considered simply enjoying the journey?"

"Journey's are for time wasters," she huffed, folding her arms once more and turning her attention back to the television.

"Our Rhali's never been one to appreciate the scenic route," Ozzy stage whispered. He snickered when she glared at him.

"At least I actually _get_ to my destination. _You_ don't even have one."

Ozzy frowned. "I feel like you're insulting me but I'm not quite following where you're headed."

Rhali propped herself up slightly in her seat and bodily turned towards Ozzy. I felt like an audience member at a show. "I mean just that. You've got itchy feet, just like your Mum, but no place to head to. You just wander and wander aimlessly; that's _your_ passion."

I cringed internally at the brutality of Rhali's words. Yes, brutal was a _very_ good description of Rhali. And tactless. And emotionally stunted.

Ozzy, however, didn't seem the slightest bit fazed by the image she painted of him. Tilting his head slightly, he began a slow nod that only became more confident. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that. I always sort of resented Mum for always jumping about places and never settling down in one place. It's rough on a kid, you know?"

"Oh, get out the bloody violins," Rhali sighed long-sufferingly. Al sniggered beside me.

"No, I'm serious," Ozzy continued, propping himself up to and leaning across his seat enthusiastically. "It was hard. And I didn't like it, not at first. There never was one spot that we were headed to, and never one place that we would always come back to." He paused, frowning thoughtfully for a moment before, like clouds parting for the sun, his face cleared and he smiled. "But now, I think I kind of like it. I don't think you guys realise how much of the world there is to see closeted up in this little nook of the UK. You know, when I spent Christmas in Spain two years ago, there was this street that had half a dozen houses on it, right, and –"

"Jesus Christ, Ozzy," Rhali groaned. "If you're going to give us the story of the 'little villa that looked like it had stepped right out of a history textbook' again, I will rip your tongue out."

Ozzy grinned. "Fine. I forfeit the story. But I'm just saying, the journey isn't all that bad, Rhali. You should give it a try sometime. Maybe focus less on the destination."

"I happen to think that the way I look at things is _very_ suitable for my own lifestyle. And everyone else's too, for that matter." Rhali glanced towards Al and I – well, mostly Al – and jabbed her thumb towards him. "Al agrees with me, don't you?"

"What?" Al raised a bemused eyebrow and drew back from Rhali as though she'd threatened him.

Rhali shuffled towards us slightly along the couch. "You're the same, what with your plants and all."

Al scratched the side of his head. "Are we still talking about journeys and destinations?"

"I think so," I muttered into his ear. "It's all very existential." I was rewarded with another chuckle. Rhali scowled at Al as though he'd personally insulted her.

"Honestly, Rhali, I don't see much of a destination in Herbology. I'd probably have to side with Ozzy on this one; it's more about the process for me, I think."

Al's smile only widened as Rhali's accusatory scowl grew fiercer. Ozzy promptly leaned over and offered Al a high five that Al, after shaking his head and muttering something about immaturity, lazily returned. Which only served to shift Rhali's scowl to Ozzy instead. Surprisingly, though, she didn't comment on it further. Or not to them, at least. Instead, her gaze shifted to me.

I doubted I'd ever been more terrified to face off against another person in my life. I felt like I was stepping up to a duel. Except that my expectations were shattered when Rhali spoke. "Well how about you, then, Mr Prefect? Your passion is all 'destination', right?"

"My passion?" My mind skidded to a halt. My passion? By passion… what did she mean? What I wanted to do with my life? Where I was headed with my career? "You mean my father's business?"

Rhali sighed heavily, shaking her head like a teacher mourning the stupidity of her pupil. "No, I did not mean 'your father's business'. I'm talking about Potions."

"Potions?"

Rhali fixed me with a flat stare before very deliberately turning her attention towards Al. "Ally, I think your boyfriend is a dumbass. He's broken; you need to get a new one."

Al shifted so that his arm wrapped around my waist. "Don't be mean, Rhali. You're being deliberately obtuse. Can you blame him?"

"I'm confused." I frowned, glancing between the two of them. "What are you -?"

"Your passion," Rhali reiterated. "Yeah, you're going to work at LeFay or whatever, but your real passion is for potions, right?" She raised her eyebrows towards me. "Or, wait. For studying in general? Are you that broad with your specificity?" The way she said it made it sound like an insult. The crooked grin Ozzy had adopted and threw towards me over her shoulder only served to enforce my suspicion. Or maybe he was just happy to be out of her direct line of fire.

I frowned thoughtfully. My passion was… I wanted to live up to my father's expectations. To be the best son I could be. But was that truly a passion? It was a goal, _my_ goal, certainly, but the passions that my friends spoke of seemed entirely something else. What came to mind was indeed potions, or reading and studying, or flying my broom and playing quidditch or… or Al.

Al, and his passion for Herbology… he was following that passion to the best of his ability. He was integrating it into his future wholly. Such a possibility was so far removed from my own circumstances that it was almost incomputable.

"Yeah… I think you broke him, Rhali," Ozzy's voice swept into my thoughts. I glanced towards him and narrowed my eyes. I may have been a little unnerved by the situation, by the possibilities that were quite simply very obvious but I'd never really considered before, but that did _not_ mean that I should be teased. I made sure Ozzy knew it, too.

"Shut up, Ozzy," Al laughed affectionately. It was a real laugh, and though he still sounded a little weary doing it, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief because of it. Each time he showed that glimmer of normalcy, of Al, after such an abnormal and horrifying experience, it eased me further. I could accept Ozzy and Rhali teasing me if it elicited such a response from him.

Al wasn't finished, though. Fidgeting around in his seat, he repositioned himself until we were facing one another. "You know you love Potions, Scor. You know that, right?"

I nodded because, yes, it was true. And the fact that Al was treating me a little condescendingly… I could live with that without it hitting a nerve. At least for today. I would gladly take anything he could dish out.

"Well, why do you love it?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Are we still on the journeys and destination subject?"

Al smirked. "Yeah, whatever. If you'd like." He paused expectantly. "So?"

I sat back a little in my seat, considering. Why did I like potions so much? Well, it was because… "I just… love it. I love working with my hands on something for once, to create something and know I've been fully invested in it. I love the precision of measuring, I love how everything needs to be _just so_ for it to work. I love how just one drop of Blue Krait venom can cause the Bishman Potion to increase in potency tenfold, but if the same is added to a Stasis Draught it won't do anything, even though they're basically the same potion at that point in the procedure. I love experimenting and coming up with alternative methods, and thinking about how the use of one ingredient instead of another could be both more feasible and have a profound effect. And I love that they're _useful_. I mean, potions are _useful_ …" I trailed off, raising my eyes towards my friends.

They all stared at me with a mixture of affection, surprise and… approval? I didn't quite know how to feel about that. The _condescension_. It was practically radiating from them all. Well, mostly Rhali, with the impression rolling off of her in waves was thick enough to overpower that of Al and Ozzy. "What?"

"You really do love it, don't you?" Al was smiling up at me as he spoke.

I shrugged. "I guess you could say it's my… passion?"

Al's smile widened. "Yeah, I'd say it is."

"So…" Rhali was frowning at me but for once there wasn't any negative connotations attached to the expression. "Do you like the process more or the end product?"

"Rha-li!" Ozzy groaned, smacking his head onto the back of the couch cushions. " _That's_ what you took from that?"

"How did you _not_ take that from that?" Rhali seemed genuinely curious by Ozzy's response. She turned back to me a moment later, though, questioningly.

Quirking my lips, I shrugged. "I suppose… both. I enjoy the end product, of making something useful, but then the actual process. I sort of find the chopping and stirring, the measuring and precision of weighing. It's sort of therapeutic, the entire cooking process."

Rhali stared at me for a moment longer. Only for a moment of static staring before a suspicious gleam arose in her eyes. "You know, Scor, how you describe it, potion-making kind of sounds like…"

I frowned. "Like what?"

Rhali ignored me and glanced over her shoulder towards Ozzy. "Don't you think so? Doesn't it kind of sound like…?"

"Yeah, it kind of does," Ozzy replied with a grin. "Who'd have thought, _Scorpius Malfoy_ would like _that._ "

My curious frown unfolded into a glare. "Why do I get the impression you two are making fun of me? What are you talking about?" They were deliberately avoiding explaining what they were referring to. I shifted my gaze down towards Al. "Do you know what…?"

Al was biting back a smile. It didn't take a huge leap to deduce that he knew exactly what they didn't speak about. I frowned at him instead; not a glare – no, I couldn't glare at him – but it irked me nonetheless. "What are you all talking about?"

Al shared a smile with Rhali and Ozzy before turning towards me once more. "Scor, have you ever tried baking before?"

* * *

Sunday did not go how I expected, but it was by no means bad.

I'd anticipated awkward conversations. I'd prepared myself to be dragged down by sadness and continued worry.

It wasn't. It wasn't at all. And Al? For all that he grew markedly wearier throughout the day, and maintained his sickly paleness, he seemed… alright. Happy even. And that made me happy too. The happiest I'd been in a week.

 _"You're supposed to knead it._ Knead _it."_

_"Ew, no, I don't want to get it all over my fingers."_

_"Ozzy, you're such a baby. Just knead it already."_

We started at midday and had been baking since lunch. I thought the expression on my mother's face would stay with me for life. As I followed Al into the kitchen to the sound of his call, his announcement to his own mother that they were taking over the room for the afternoon, Mother simply sat there stunned. I'd never in my life seen her stunned before.

_"Is that cinnamon or nutmeg?"_

_"How can you not tell them apart? They smell entirely different."_

_"Well sorry, Mr Prefect, if I don't have the nose of a bloodhound."_

_"It smells like my mother's tea. That's cinnamon, right?"_

_"Al, how are you even friends with such incompetents?"_

We started off simple. I'd personally never cooked a meal in my life. That was one of the many duties of the house elves at the Manor. Neither had Ozzy, unexpectedly enough, though Al and Rhali had something of a repertoire of cooking, cleaning and baking spells between them that they revelled in demonstrating. Though I was faintly horrified at the prospect of undertaking such a task myself, it also left me more than a little excited.

Like so many things did with Al.

_"No, no, no! You're supposed to add the bi-carb soda before pouring the syrup into the mix!"_

_"Why does that order even matter?"_

_"It matters. You're supposed to follow the recipe. That's why it's a recipe."_

_"He's got you on that one, Rhali."_

_"It swells all of the syrup up and makes it foamy. It's actually pretty cool when you heat it up…"_

We baked far too much to be eaten, and most of it sweet. I'd never had much of a sweet tooth, but when we took our first taste of the slightly flat scones, they weren't perfect but they must have been the best I'd ever tried.

Scone were followed by muffins. That was chased by Anzac biscuits and fruit bread. Ozzy wanted to make a tiramisu – he'd developed something of a taste for coffee, though the actual 'cooking' process was far superior to our meagre skills and his desires proved to be quite ambitious – while Rhali demanded we make brownies because a bake-off was never complete without chocolate. I requested something savoury while pondered and eventually Al asserted his desire for something spicy.

We made them all. The kitchen was overflowing with baked goods, rich scents and the warmth of steam oozing from the cooling racks.

_"That cheese didn't melt enough. We should put it back in the oven."_

_"Never saw you as one to be picky about that sort of thing, Ozzy."_

_"It's not pickiness. It's a matter of refinement."_

_"Oh, and you'd know all about refinement."_

_"Well, he is the one who didn't want to touch the dough."_

_"I just don't like getting crap beneath my fingernails."_

We laughed. Ozzy smeared tattoo-like streaks of flour on his cheeks that stood out starkly on his dark skin and marked him for the rest of the afternoon, forgotten moments later. Rhali managed to splatter the entire front of her shirt with chocolate but seemed entirely satisfied by the fact, claiming it would sate her chocolate inclination for the rest of the afternoon. Al retreated to a stool halfway through the afternoon when I urged him to; he looked about ready to drop from tiredness but wouldn't accept anything more. Suffice it to say he became something of a combined director, taste-tester and audience to our little class. We all listened to him; he actually knew a little of what he was talking about. More than Rhali, anyway.

 _"We should take these to school_."

_"Yeah, definitely. Especially Ozzy's tiramisu. Maybe we could poison some of the Firsties."_

_"Hey, it's not that bad. And it's your fault if it is."_

_"Well, coffee does taste terrible as it is. Perhaps that's what it's supposed to be like?"_

_"Thank…you, Scor?"_

_"It's enough to feed a small army to be sure. Maybe we could give the house elves a break tonight?"_

_"Please no. I'd be embarrassed to show anyone our pancake scones."_

_"Oh, come on, they're not that bad. They've got character."_

We laughed. Actually laughed. And it felt fantastic.

I found that I was quite partial to baking. Contrary to what Rhali suggested, and Ozzy and Al for that matter, it was not at all like Potioneering.

But even so, yes, I found I quite liked it anyway. That Sunday was simply rife with life-changing experiences. And none of them were really that bad. Not bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave a comment if you get the chance. Thank you!


	19. I'm Too Lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry my updates have been a little slow lately but I should be getting back on track a little more quickly from now on. Anyway, just as a WARNING, this chapter contains discussions of addiction and drug use, of addiction recovery and descriptions of mental disorders. Please be aware that this is a work of fiction but if you think it might be triggering for you please, please be careful. I don't want to upset anyone. I try to write as accurately as I know how and I hope that it doesn't hit a little too close to home as a result.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter xx

" _Aguamenti figurium."_

The liquid rose clear and fluid from the bowl, climbing in twisting ribbons like a tangle of snake coiling around an invisible tree. As if scaling that tree, the last droplets of water lifted from the smooth whiteness of the bowl and seeped into the air. Not a drop remained behind.

I left out a sigh. Perfect. _Now if I can just..._

The head of the snake followed the directions of my wand, hypnotised as I gently waved it. I urged it into curling undulations to form a hovering bird, the letter S, a simplistic cottage that looked like a child's Lego house. Finally, with another gentle wave of my wand, I nudged it down onto the table top and into its final form. The bonsai-sized fig tree shaped as though growing from the polished oak table, sprouting branches laden with delicate, miniscule leaves. Peering at it closely, critically, I cast a quick glance over the finer points - it looked about right, all in proportion - before waving another sweeping instruction and freezing the tree solid. The water hardened instantaneously, transparent water becoming opaque and chilled. It looked like a perfectly carved little statue.

"Great! That was great, Al. Although your detailing on the tree is a little pretentious."

I glanced over my shoulder at Rose seated crossed legged on a dining chair propped against the wall. Her arms were folded, her wand wedged in the crook of one elbow, and there was a keen sharpness to her gaze that she always adopted when she was 'teaching'. It dropped as I met her eyes, however, and she offered me a smile in its place.

"I don't think it's all that pretentious. Aren't we supposed to aim for complexity?"

Rose nodded her head, ceding. "Yeah, but going above and beyond is probably a little excessive. I know you take pride in your knowledge of plants and all that, but don't focus on it too hard. You'd do better to concentrate on reducing the number of water droplets pulling from the end of your original Catch. Picture it more as the consistency of gel; then you're more likely to get it all in one."

I nodded in understanding before turning back to my fig bonsai, melting it and redirecting it back into the bowl to try again. There were a number of teasing remarks I could have said to Rose's comment but I didn't. I wouldn't. She was going out of her way to very altruistically offer me help with the practical side of my rather mangled education at the moment. I could hardly fault her for anything, even teasingly.

It had been three weeks since I'd retreated home from school. Four if I counted the week I'd spent dead to the world in hospital, which I didn't. Three weeks and a weekend that I'd been struggling to keep up with my studies while gradually wading my way from the foggy cloud that had settled upon me since awakening at St. Mungo's. That time was more than long enough for me to realise that, should I actually want to pass my N.E. , then I'd have to knuckle down. A lot.

Rose just about jumped at the chance to help me. I was a little surprised at her eagerness, but not too much. I don't like to play favourites but... no, whatever, Rose is definitely my favourite cousin. We're pretty different people, but though our friendship has waxed and waned repeatedly over the years and though we may experience temporary distancing, we would always cleave back together again eventually. Apparently now, mid-seventh year, was 'eventually' enough for Rose. It wasn't much of a stretch to deduce why she'd chosen now.

I couldn't blame Rose for that, though. How could I? Over the course of the last few weeks, my understanding of the situation had been splayed very blatantly before me. I'd come to realise just how foolish, dangerous and selfish my actions had been, even _knowing_ that the slip up with the MA was an outlier in my habits, far removed from the normal effects of my using. But that slip up? Stupid. Irrational. Hasty, thoughtless, moronic – all of the above.

No one had said as much of course, but I knew it nonetheless. I'd been desperate, and freaking out, and even as a memory I knew that my panic, that the overwhelming emotion provoked indirectly by my classmates and the papers, had felt like the end of the world. But that couldn't excuse the fact that I'd hurt my family so much. That I'd terrified my friends. Up until now, I'd never really seen the fact that I dabbled in drug use as being a problem. It was a passing fancy that became a hobby but it was never really a _problem_. Not really.

I knew better now. No, I still didn't think I was - am - an addict. I didn't _feel_ like an addict. There was no compulsive urges to hunt down a leaf of Harproot or a stick of Happy Gum and ease my nerves when I became particularly tightly wound - something that threatened more and more often of late given the wavering status of my schooling and future. It wasn't compulsive like that.

It wasn't. Like. That.

Even so, I did sorely miss it. Facing my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my friends weeks before, I could have definitely gone for some sort of strong Calming Draught or depressant of sorts. Something other than the medication I was already put on by the Healers at St. Mungo's. That want arose with each instance that I felt my nerves begin to grow frazzled in the moments before the medication shorted its climb, when my mind became cloudy. It was only when it was thrown into my face, spread before me how frequently I had relied upon such a crutch, that I came to realise how often I _did_ rely on it. And that, well… that was startling to me. I wasn't an addict – no, I don't think so – but dependent? Maybe a little...

A little. Or a lot.

But though the urge arose at least daily, sometimes hourly with the train of thoughts my mind so frequently boarded, I wouldn't try them again. I couldn't, not after what had happened. Two weeks after waking up and I still felt heaviness weighing down my body, still felt that unshakeable lethargy when I let myself sit still for too long. I still looked ridiculously pale, and my pallor had changed so little since the first time I caught sight of myself in the mirror that I wondered if it would ever fade to normal. It wouldn't surprise me if it didn't; the Healers at St. Mungo's had said that the physiological effects of my 'overdose' would likely last for a time, some of them perhaps permanently. And those were the effects I couldn't see.

I don't know the nuts and bolts of what happened to my body. Not exactly. That scared me a little, so I tried not to think about it too much, with 'try' being the operative word of the equation. Healer Mendez had said something about the heightened sensitivity of my sympathetic nervous system and an increase and often unfettered release of adrenaline and noradrenalin. All of it compiled together served to heighten my tendency towards experiencing the joys of a panic attack. That, as well as a fucked up pineal gland and melatonin release – a direct result of the clash between the MA and Harproot – left me jumping between tightly wound and neurotic and slumping on the edge of sleep for the first week of my return home. It was all a little technical and passed way over my head, mostly I thought because I had no prior interest in human bodies. All I knew was that yes indeed, I'd struck a nearly critical blow to my body with one foul swoop. Brilliant. It was just brilliant.

And no, it was not comforting in the slightest to know that I'd done this entirely to myself. With my own stupidity.

That was where the medication came in. I didn't like it, but I supposed it was better to take it than to not. Mendez told me that my recovery, the lingering symptoms of my, um... _illness_ , would only become more pronounced without it. He called the potion a Maintenance Draught – simple enough, right? – although it was apparently a little different to the one that was communally used by most 'normal' people. That was the thing about that particular brew; it was so versatile that additional elements could be included to refine it and tailor it to specific needs. For me? I thought of it as a sort of mix of that Maintenance potion and a very, very strong Calming Draught. And maybe something else, I wasn't sure, but whatever it was tasted faintly minty and not at all in a good way.

Whatever it was, I felt the effects. I could actually felt them, sort of like how swallowing too much water can leave a sloshing feeling in one's gut but in this instance it was on a neuronal level. It was supposed to be mixed with a beverage - which subsequently made whatever beverage it was so combined with taste like crap - and taken with a meal. The effects kicked in almost straight away. I likened it to being wrapped beneath a thick, heavy blanket and lulled into dazedness while simultaneously locked into my own head and contemplating every possible thing that was even the slightest bit nervous-inducing and discomforting that I could possibly conceive in that moment. All from an observer's perspective, too – it was like I was looking at pictures and listening to a narration of my personal and mostly irrational fears, nodding and acknowledging each one quietly before placing them to the side and moving onto the next one.

I hated it. Or I hated it at first. I still hated that dazedness, and I knew Mum disliked it too. She sat next to me every morning for the half-hour or so it took for it to wear off and for me to return to a semblance of normalcy. Her face was always tense with worry, eyes tightening in sympathetic sorrow when I swum back into awareness enough to actually recognise her expression. I really, really hated the whole experience, even just because of what it did to my mum. In regard to the detachedness? No, it was not exactly an _un_ pleasant experience. Not really, but I still didn't like it. It was terribly discomforting to have so little control over my own body.

But I couldn't deny that the Maintenance Draught worked its magic. Yes, there was the initial infliction for about thirty minutes, but after that I was basically back to normal. Or at least as normal as Me was, what with the lingering effects of my illness and all.

But… no, it was more than that, even. It was the thing that Mendez called my 'anxiety disorder' – yes, I wasn't an idiot, I knew it for what it was. I'd just never quite considered myself 'disordered' before. It was a horrible feeling, to acknowledge that. I likened it to a chimaera on a leash. Every so often, more frequently to my notice now that the issue had been brought to the fore, the beast would rear its head. Slowly at first, as though awakening from a doze, and I would tighten my fingers around that leash. But within moments, from no further provocation other than that which had initially awoken it, it turned into a snarling, snipping, straining creature, pulling at its restraints and only becoming more demanding as I attempted to foil its aggravation.

In the past, that anxiety had gotten away from me. There was one of two results: either I would succumb to a panic attack, or a milder bout if I was lucky, or I would stave off the rising madness with Harproot. And my Harproot had worked. It had.

But now I didn't have that anymore.

Instead, it was as though the situation was simply... taken out of my hands. As though a strong pair of magical fingers would loosen my grasp from the restraining chimaera's leash and batted that crazed creature on the nose with a firm fist. And it would quell. Just like that. It was unnerving at first, to have control of my own body so gently but firmly taken from my grasp. And yet unnerving as it was, with each instance I found myself easing into it. It was just such a relief, to have the battle taken off my hands for once. If nothing else, I was thankful to the Healers for that Draught; I doubted I'd have survived the following weeks from waking up without my Harproot and retained my sanity otherwise.

Apparently I'd wean off the Maintenance Draught eventually. Mendez said that was how it worked. I could only hope he knew what he was talking about, because I didn't want to risk being cast out to have a go at it on my own. I was scared that being set adrift would just make me turn back to using once more, and the guilt that clung to me over what I'd done had not eased even slightly over the course of my continued recovery.

Harproot was different, yes. But even that… I couldn't use that. And not only because it would feel like a betrayal of the trust to those I cared for. It was because… my Harproot, it was…

No. No, I couldn't think about that either. I couldn't turn my mind to my little purple plant, to my Tipsy Toes hybrid, to any of the nurtured and adored herbs that I'd kept both alongside my bed in the Hufflepuff dorm and in Neville's greenhouses. Because they… my plants were probably…

It would be understandable – it would be – if they were simply gone.

Staring at the afterimage of the bonsai fig tree, I had to physically shake myself loose from my thoughts. Maybe crafting a tree from the water hadn't been all that good of an idea. I raised my wand once more, pointed it towards the bowl and, focusing on Rose's suggestion, cast once more.

The droplets still struggled to tear loose from the greater mass of water, but I thought it went a little more smoothly this time. I built an overdressed snowman out of the solidified end product this time.

"There, that's probably a better idea," Rose commented, nodding approvingly at my snowman. "I like his hat."

"Why, thank you. I modelled it on Grandad's golfing visor."

Rose smirked. "A very accurate depiction. Grandad would be proud."

A knock to the door of the dining room announced Mum before she cracked it open. Poking her head through the doorway, she scanned the room, stopping only when her gaze fell upon Rose. "Rosie, it's nearly four. You'd best head back to school."

Slipping to her feet, Rose bowed her head in acknowledgment. "'Kay, Auntie Gin. We're just about finished up anyway."

Mum's gaze flickered momentarily to the dining table. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Water shaping charms? They still have them in the curriculum?"

"Clearly," I supplied, idly tapping the snowman's head with my wand as I leant back against the table. "I have no idea why."

"They were thinking of taking them out of the examinable material when I was going through," Mum continued with a sigh.

Rose, gathering her books from where they lay pushed to the other end of the table, pouted objectionably. "It could be useful."

"How, exactly?" I spoke both for mum and myself, I felt. "Other than making pretty sculptures, there's not much use for them."

Rose shrugged. "Whatever the reason, it hardly matters. You know it's a must-pass mark, Auntie Gin?"

Mum shook her head with mock solemnity. "How cruel."

"That's the duty of the examiners, I believe. To inflict as much pain upon poor potential-graduates as possible."

At the sound of Scor's voice, Mum glanced over her shoulder, edging sideways to make room for him to step into the dining room. He'd been making use of the admittedly limited library of the Potter house for the past half an hour or so. I thought he'd probably spent most of his time flicking through the books in Lily's room; she was the studious one, after all. I suspected she saw it as an obligation to have the most books of anyone in the house.

Scor had been accompanying Rose the past few Sunday's for the practical study session she afforded me. He'd insisted, Rose said, and Rhali and Ozzy had been similarly adamant. However, unlike Rhali and Ozzy, Scor had actually kept it up after one session; my two oldest friends unanimously declared that between Rose and Scor the air was far too thick with buzzing minds for their continued attendance. They instead Flooed from Hogwarts on Saturday – with the express permission of Tyril, of course, and, more importantly, of Weatherwell – and we spent our days very successfully procrastinating from study. Well, we procrastinated. Scor studied.

Because of course, Scor came on Saturday too.

And Tuesday afternoon. And Thursday morning too, because he had a single period free before his classes started at ten. And on that Thursday morning, he would stay until the last possibly moment before Flooing back to school. He said it was to help me study, and we did study, but… it was strange. For someone who was so adamant about dedication to academia, he had certainly slowed down his feverish pace somewhat over the past few weeks. Sometimes he simply sat next to me while I scratched out an essay. And some of those times – just some of them – he didn't even have a quill in his own hand.

It was shocking. Obviously there was something unhinged with the world, but when I'd asked him about it he'd only shrugged. Adopting a worryingly sad little smile, he would say, "I'll get it done. It doesn't really matter."

I got the impression there was something a lot deeper going on there, but I wasn't quite sure what. I could only assume that the same dedication Rose had assumed was similarly reflected in Scor, that he just expressed it differently. Questioningly, too, if his relative neglect of his studies was anything to go by. That couldn't be good, could it?

Still, for all of his apparent 'neglect', I couldn't help but be thankful to Scor. Over the past weeks, something had very definitely changed between the two of us, and it wasn't only on his end. I found that I wanted, almost needed, to be around him. It had nothing – or at least very little – to do with the fact that he'd said he loved me. Not really. I just… I wanted him around. He was reassuring in a way that was entirely different to the support I got from my other friends, from my family. He held me up. He helped me breathe. And the funniest part of it was that he didn't even realise he did it. When I'd attempted to tell him as much time and time again with so much awkwardness it had sounded more like a mangled compilation of words than an actual sentence, he'd simply tilted his head towards me curiously, a smile playing across his lips, and slipped an arm around my waist if, for whatever reason, it hadn't already there.

And he'd say. "Me too." Whatever that meant. Was that tied in with his perceived love?

As Scor stepped past Mum, he fell to my side immediately. As though it was the most natural thing to do in the world, his arm settled around my shoulders. I supposed it was natural now. Whenever we were in the same room together we were always touching nowadays. Oddly enough, I found I didn't mind. I'd never really objected exactly, only that now I didn't mind at all. The room could have been filled with family members, Hogwarts students, or members of the press for all I cared. This was one thing that had changed and I couldn't bring myself to regret. Scor's simple touch was… it was comforting.

"Oh, Scorpius, I didn't know you were still here," Mum said with mild surprise.

"I highly doubt he'd leave early by any will of his own," Rose said, smiling. "Every last second counts, right Scorpius?"

Scor shrugged, completely disregarding the suggestive and almost sappy expression Rose had adopted. "Of course."

"You'd best be off, you two," Mum urged, stepping forwards to help Rose gather her books together. Really, she had far too many for just a day of study. It was a veritable library. I doubted she'd even gotten the chance to open half of them, what with helping me and all. I was by no means complaining, of course; how could I? It was only that it seemed a little pointless to lug so many along with her when she didn't use them.

Slinging her schoolbag over her shoulder, Rose paused mid turn as she made to leave. She cast me a final warm smile, the same smile I'd known and loved since we were kids. "See you next week, Al. Message me if you need help with anything."

"With Hogwarts' reception, I don't think messaging would do much good."

Rose shrugged. "I'll swing past a hotspot every couple of hours or so –"

"No, don't." I held up a placating hand. "Thank you, it's very appreciated, but I don't want you hanging outdoors waiting for a message that might come. If I need to, I'll write you."

"That'd probably take longer," she pointed out.

"Then I'll wait till Sunday. Or I'll pass a message on through Scor." A glance towards Scor and his responding nod of acceptance confirmed the suggestion.

Rose quirked her lips as though she were about to argue further, but I could see the slight flush of smugness not quite hidden by a thoughtful frown. Rose _loved_ the fact that, for all of his smarts, Scor didn't quite have the knack for teaching. I meant, _at all_. He just couldn't convey concepts in alternative ways and just ends up getting exasperated with his confounded student. I knew this because I'd experienced it first hand. We'd tried a _lot_ of times, and not just over the past weeks. Our initial friendship was definitely not founded upon Scor's altruistic tendencies to assist in my studies. Crack the whip and order studiousness, maybe, but certainly not mentoring.

Rose, though, she was good. More than that, she revelled in being so distinctly better than Scor at something. There had always been a rivalry between the two smartest students of our year, and it had not always been so benign. Although, for his part and in this particular instance, Scor didn't really seem to mind. He told me he was just happy that I had the help. I actually believed him at that; he sounded so sincere.

"Alright, then." Rose nodded decisively. "You do that. I'll bring your homework next weekend." With a farewell tilt of her head, she hefted the books in her arms once more and set off from the room.

Mum paused in the doorway in the act of following her. "Scorpius, you should probably head back to school too. It's…" She paused, casting me a wary, questioning glance. "It's getting late."

Which was bullshit. It wasn't getting late at all. Scor stayed every Sunday and Tuesday for dinner, actually. But Mum was being tactful in an awkward situation. As tactful as Rose had been in deliberately not questioning why it had been suggested she leave at four in the afternoon. She usually stayed for dinner too.

Mum needn't have worried. She didn't have to tiptoe around the subject of this afternoon's program that had been hanging over my head the whole day and dragging my down like a leaden chain around the ankle. Scor knew what was going on, and so did Rose. Rhali and Ozzy, too. I wouldn't keep that particular secret from any of them, no matter how embarrassing it is.

"It's alright, Mum. He already knows."

The wariness faded from Mum's eyes and she turned a smile onto Scor. "Well then, that makes things easier. Al's got to be there by four-thirty, Scorpius. Sorry to hustle you from the house, but –"

"If it's alright with you, Ginny, I'd like to accompany him."

I blinked, startled. My shoulders tensed for a moment until a light tapping of Scor's fingers on the side of my neck urged them to ease. Glancing at him sidelong, I raised an eyebrow. "You want to come?"

Scor was staring directly at me, his head tilted slightly in that strange way it had adopted over the past few weeks. He nodded in a short, decisive dip of his chin as though there was no question in the matter. "Yes. I would. So long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable."

It wasn't a question. Not really. I knew Scor well enough to know that when he'd made up his mind it was like trying to drag a mule through thick mud to get him to budge. And Scor had very definitely made up his mind. He was coming, and it would only be if I was absolutely desperate enough to forbid his accompaniment that he would cede that decision.

Was I desperate enough? No, I didn't think so. I didn't particularly want Mum to come, though probably not for the reasons she was thinking. Mum knew that I turned into a tightly wound ball of guilt and humiliation whenever the subject of my illness was brought up. Even more so when the history leading up that illness was raised. She did me the blessed courtesy of doing so only when it was absolutely necessary. Generally, unless Mendez was in the room and driving the conversation, we let sleeping dogs lie.

This afternoon would be tough. Guilt and humiliation were certainly on the cards with the prospect of the potential conversation topics set to arise. And though I knew Mum felt worried and overprotective, longing to come along, she respected my needs enough to let me go on my own. She wouldn't have two weeks ago, I knew. I'd barely been allowed out of her sight for a minute that first day I'd come home. And though I felt an almost overwhelming warmth at the love that simply radiated from her, there was a certain amount of embarrassment entailed too. It was horribly awkward.

So no, when Mendez had suggested – in more of a demand than a suggestion – that I attend an Addiction Recovery Group tailored specifically for witches and wizards, Mum had wanted to come. Initially, at least. That initial assertion had remained for a time and I hadn't said anything to sway her from her resolution. But Mum was more perceptive than I give her credit for. She'd seen right through me. With what was obviously a Herculean effort, she had taken a deep breath and informed me that I could go by myself.

I'd never felt such a complex tangle of emotions: relief, embarrassment, sadness, regret, guilt, nervousness… it was enough to nearly send me mad. I didn't want Mum to come along. I didn't want Dad to either, and he'd been awkward enough about the support group, walking on egg shells around the topic, that it had been easy enough for me to tell him it was okay if he didn't want to come. He'd looked both ashamed and relieved at my offer, even though I'd assured him it was fine. I didn't want him coming along for exactly the same reason that I didn't want Mum coming.

Quite simply, they didn't know the whole story. To be honest, I didn't want them to know. I didn't withhold the story with malicious intent, it was just… I felt like my privacy had been violated enough over the past few weeks. I didn't think I'd manage even with family.

Scor, though. I stared up at him silently. Scor actually knew just about the whole story. He knew how long I'd been using for, knew what had driven me into it, and if he didn't know the depth of my 'anxiety disorder' before my illness, I'd bet my bottom dollar he did now. Scor was like that; even on top of his study load, he's the sort of person that would take to familiarising himself with every aspect of an issue relevant to his life that he possibly could. Whether that was through books or through Rhali, Ozzy and Rose remained to be seen, but I would hazard that it was probably a mixture of the two.

Some of the things he said, that he mentioned just in passing… yes, he certainly knew what he was talking about now. Hell, he probably knew more about anxiety disorders than I did and I was living with it.

Finally, I nodded. A small nod, hesitant – I wasn't entirely sure of my own conviction. But Scor's answering smile, touched faintly by relief and gratitude as though he were thankful that I'd 'let him' come along, laid such hesitancy to rest. I turned back to Mum. "Would it be alright if Scor came along?"

I hoped I hadn't offended her, wanting Scor along more than I did her or Dad. I honestly couldn't tell if I had or not. Her expression was unreadable, a little thoughtful perhaps but there something deeper there too. But it wasn't resentful, or even the slightest bit negative. If anything she looked relieved. The small look of approval she sent Scor's way was horribly embarrassing. "Yes, I think that would be alright. When I spoke to the director on the phone she said that you could bring up to two people along for support."

I cringed slightly at the word 'support', accurate though I knew it was. Running a hand through my hair – and likely ripping half of it loose from its tie in doing so – I nodded. "Right. Then… right."

Mum stepped towards me and patted my cheek. "Are you sure you're alright going alone?" She paused, glancing towards Scor. "Or I suppose just the two of you, more correctly."

I nodded once more. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm… it'll be fine. If anything, you should be worried about Scor." I cast him a falsely exasperated glance. "You're going to be bored out of your mind, you realise that."

Scor smirked at me. "Oh, I'm sure I could find something to amuse myself with."

"Please tell me you aren't going to pick shit at everybody else there?"

"Would I do that?" At my raised eyebrow, Scor's smirk deepened. "It pains me that you think so little of me. Surely you know that if I was going to tease anyone it would just be the other long-suffering family members. I know my boundaries."

"Scorpius," Mum sighed, shaking her head with an exasperated grin of her own. There you go, she actually knew him well enough to know when he was joking. How far my Mum had come.

"I'm serious, Scor. I won't be offended if you don't _want_ to come."

I reached a hand up to tug at his fingers still draped over the side of my neck. Those fingers flicked my cheek gently in reprimand. When I cast another glance towards him, his expression was intense and uncomfortably sincere. "Al, I was the one who asked to come along."

"There wasn't much asking involved," I muttered.

Scor snorted. "Well, this is me we're talking about," he pointed out, which was fair enough. "But honestly, you don't have to worry. I'll bring spare parchment and get started on the Salem Treaty essay for History if I get bored enough."

"Why are you starting that already? It's not due till the end of next week. Surely you have something else to be doing. Please tell me you haven't finished _all_ of your other homework."

Scor shrugged. "Maybe not all of it."

"I hate you."

Grinning, Scor squeezed me in a half-hug once more. The warmth of his presence and his comforting embrace was enough that I nearly forgot my Mum still stood in the doorway at all. "No you don't."

"You're right. I don't."

"Alright, love birds," Mum finally interrupted, taking a step back into the hallway with a smile stretching across his face. "You'd better be off or you'll be late."

"Mum," I sighed. "We'll be Apparating nearly half an hour early. I don't think it's possible to be late."

"Well, it's better to be safe than sorry," she quipped astutely, turning from the room. Shaking my head, I locked my hands into Scor's fingers still resting on my shoulder and tugged him after her. It probably was better to get it over with. The first would surely be the worst.

Right?

* * *

The building for Jensen Mackie's Support Group was small, nondescript and oddly enough located in the middle of Muggle suburban London. If I were to sum it up in a phrase, I would say it looked like a cross between a high-class medical practitioners and a modern, small-family estate. A single level structure, if was built of white plaster walls broken by grey-framed windows and a matching tiled roof that sloped down to the roadside. A neat little garden of flowerless bushes and newly sprouting grass lined the paved footpath up to the door and a sign on the little white picket fence proclaimed the name of the establishment beneath a logo that looked suspiciously like an abstract unicorn.

The building didn't even try to hide its name. I wondered at that. Did Muggles simply not go to support groups?

We waited outside for an indeterminate time before Scor led the way inside. His hand was still threaded loosely through mine so that I was tugged along rather than following completely of my own desire. A good thing, too. I thought I probably would have backed out of it if he hadn't. My familiar, sickening nervousness rose up time and time again, only to be cut off at the knees each time by that constant cap of the medication. It made me feel a little dizzy, like I was caught in the persistent throughs of a whirlpool. Even with that assist, though, I was still finding it difficult to take steady breaths.

The interior of the building was exactly as one would expect from the sight of the outside, though it lacked the casualness of a residential home. Spartan furnishings, neat, modest upholstery on a single neat, modest couch beside an artificial pot plant, and a wide desk of some polished, grey material that wasn't wood took up most of the room. A young man sat behind the desk, flipping through papers and tapping away at an Inscribed computer at his side. It still unhinged me a little bit to see technology pervading public establishments and services sometimes. The drift towards embracing some of the most useful inventions in Muggle history was slow in entering the Wizarding world. Many families utilised phones and computers, televisions and kitchen appliances, but until recent years it had remained solely in private use.

It actually made me feel oddly comforted to see it. I'd almost expected an old-fashioned, stick-up-the-arse mental institution from how Mendez had described it. A way with words, that man had not.

The receptionist glanced up at us when we entered. He had an affable countenance, a ready smile and slightly down-turned eyes that gave him an easy-going impression. That helped to stem some of my regularly rising nervousness too.

"Good afternoon. Are you here for Sahra's group?"

Scor glanced towards me questioningly and I nodded. That simple glance did more to ease my breathing difficulties than anything else. Immediately, I knew that the concern that had been steadily growing, of facing these people and – oh, the horror – actually _talking_ to them had been eased somewhat. That Scor was more than prepared to take the reigns and the lead in this situation. I thought I should have been a bit guilty for that relief, but all I could feel was an overwhelming sense of gratitude, so profound it nearly drowned my nervousness.

Turning back towards the receptionist – his nametag called him "Jazber" – Scor nodded. "Yes, that's correct."

Jazber smiled that affable smile once more. "Righto. You're a little early, but that's probably a good thing if it's your first time?" His words were a question more than a statement, and at Scor's nod, and my own less pronounced reply, he pushed his wheelie chair out from the table and ducked down behind the desk. The sound of a draw opening and papers flipping was followed moments later by his reappearance. He handed over a single sheet to the both of us. "If you'd just fill out these for me, then you can head right on in."

"It's not anonymous?" Scor asked, leaning over the desk and pilfering a quill from the colourful assortment on offer. I followed his example.

"No, it is," Jazber assured us. "This is just a confidentiality thing. We only exchange first names in the group session, but we ask that you keep what we talk about to yourselves concerning other people's stories. It's hard enough to speak as it is, right?"

I nodded in agreement, eyes trained on the bleached paper before me. I didn't really even read the finely printed words – from a computer, I noted distractedly. My mind had fastened on Jazber's words: anonymous. Privacy and confidentiality. And it was _enforced_. I couldn't focus my attention enough to deduce the consequences of a breach in that confidentiality, but it actually served to ease my nerves a little.

So far, this wasn't looking to be quite as horrendous as I'd feared.

We handed our signed papers back to Jazber who, predictably, received them with another smile. He directed through the only door in the room, to his right, and without another word we filed out of the entry.

The second room carried a hint of the residential feel that the first had lacked. A wide, tidy space, it was large enough that I thought it likely consumed the entire rest of the building. Assuming magic wasn't involved, of course, which it likely was from the doorway embedded in the adjacent wall.

It was simple. Pale blue walls offset darker blue carpet, a ring of grey couches circling a low coffee table – there must have been enough to seat at least two dozen people – and a fire crackled in a neat little hearth on the distant wall. Other than that, it appeared largely bare; another pot plant in the corner to the left of the door, a couple of picture frames of ambiguous scenery, a window covered by simplistic blue curtains. There was no clutter, but then there was not quite such an absence of content that it appeared stark.

Simple and comfortable. Yes, it was that exactly.

There were already about eight people in the room. Five men and three women. They were a mixture of ages, but it didn't take much of a leap to suppose that the older ones were the 'supporters' while those younger were the actual clients. None of them looked to be much past their teens, though only two appeared younger than Scor and I.

Several glanced up at our entry – a girl with frizzy hair pulled into a messy bun, a boy with heavy, square glasses slumped casually back in his seat, another boy so painfully thin I could make out his collarbone through his shirt even at a distance. Their gazes were curious in a nonchalant sort of way, brief and superficial before they refocused back upon what had previously occupied them, a book and conversation partners respectively.

I hadn't noticed I'd actually stopped breathing until it stuttered back into action once more. God, I was a nervous wreck today. Even more than usual. And the most annoying part about it was that I could see how nervous I was, how largely irrational that feeling was, and yet could do nothing about it. Absolutely nothing. It was very infuriating. I found myself frowning down at my shoes.

At Scor's urging, we settled ourselves in our own seats. Not distinctly apart from the other occupants of the room, but not quite close enough to make conversation. I was grateful for that small consideration on Scor's part. I didn't feel up to talking at the moment. Which, I realised, would probably make this first of potentially many sessions largely redundant. What good would it do if I didn't actually 'share my thoughts and feelings' like those exaggerated dramas on TV suggested? Would Mendez suggest I just give them up?

"Are you okay?"

I glanced up at Scor as he nudged my knee with his own, drawing my attention. His face was carefully blank, but I could detect a note of concern from the slight quirk to his eyebrow. Attempting – and failing – a feeble smile, I nodded. Then, because he didn't look convinced in the slightest, I shrugged and shook my head. Only a small shake, barely perceptible, but the slight shift towards me in his seat suggested that Scor saw it nonetheless. He didn't say anything else, simply sitting beside me in quiet contemplation and conducting a detached study of the rest of the people in the room. The sort of staring that was somehow not intrusive or too intense and generally elicited smiles of acknowledgement rather than scowls.

He didn't ask me questions. He didn't push for conversation. Scor simply accepted that I wasn't in a mood for talking right now. That I couldn't. He accepted and accommodated. I studied him for a moment before dropping my eyes to my fingers curled in my lap. Scor was…

What did I ever do to deserve such an incredible boyfriend? How had I never realised the incredible fortune that had urged him to fancy me before now? Scor was smart, he was driven, he was kind when he wanted to be and funny often, when he didn't mean to be at all. I'd always known that – that and more – and it was that which drew me to him.

That and the world-weary, almost-lost shadow to his face that I had glimpsed in the dungeons outside Yeong's rooms so many months ago. How times have changed. How much has happened since. Glancing at him sidelong again, I couldn't see even a glimmer of that person that I had first felt the need to befriend. The person who had needed to be drawn from the vicious cycle of weighing himself down beneath duties and responsibilities. I wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or if I missed it, but whichever it hardly mattered. What couldn't be denied was that Scor, to me… he was strong. And supportive. And kind, and caring and understanding without being pushy and demanding and excessively protective to the point of clinginess.

I mean, if anything, I sort of felt like the clingy one at the moment. The fact that the very feel of his knee still lightly touching my own was like an anchor for me in a chopping sea was indicative enough.

The room slowly filled over the next quarter of an hour. People entered generally in pairs, sometimes alone and occasionally in threes, and settled themselves onto the couches with an ease that suggested they had something of an informally reserved seating arrangement. That worried me for a moment – God, it was like the Firsties on the train all over again; would Scor and I be asked to get up and move? – but like so many of my niggling worries it amounted to nothing. By the time four thirty ticked by, the room was almost full save for a quartet of seats scattered amongst us.

Almost on the half hour exactly, a single woman entered the room and closed the door behind her. She was smiling even before she turned, but not in a demanding way. It was the sort of smile that suggested her face just naturally sat that way. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a pair of glasses sitting on her nose that were much more refined than the boy's across the room. In one hand was a pad of paper and – how revolutionary – a pen that labelled her as the director of the session more adeptly than the nametag bearing the name 'Sahra' on her breast. She couldn't have been far into her thirties and appeared younger from the cut of her curly hair and the causal jeans and blouse.

Super casual. I mean, I sort of expected a therapist or whatever she was to be all tightly wound, prim and proper and attempting to breath pompous superiority, leaving her clients nodding eagerly and ignorantly in the face of her rapid-fire jargon. This Sahra didn't look like that; if anything she was probably one of the most underdressed in the room. Her friendly approachability was enforced by the welcoming nods of familiarity she offered to several of the boys and girls seated around us. They exchanged brief pleasantries, a chuckle and smile, as though they were more friends than 'clients'.

Seating herself into one of the free seats with a sigh and propping the pad of paper and pen on her lap, Sahra took a moment to meet the eyes of everyone in the room. She paused for a moment longer on Scor and I, her smile widening slightly more for a moment before passing on. Surprisingly, that didn't actually worry me that much. Although, the promise of an encroaching introduction was evident enough from the recognition of our newness.

"Alright, then, shall we get started?"

There was a murmur of unintelligible affirmations from everyone in the room. Sahra smirked. "I'll take that as a yes, then. How are we all? Here and accounted for? How's the head count, Sammy?"

A boy who looked to be perhaps nineteen but was certainly short for his age gave her a crooked smile. "Yeah, perfect, Sahra."

"Perfect," Sahra parroted with a grin. I got the impression there was some history behind their exchange but it left me a little stumped. "Then should we just dive in?"

There was another wave of unintelligible muttering that Sahra seemed to take for assent. "Right, then. I thought maybe we could have a bit of a talk about coping mechanisms today. I'm talking anything from chewing gum to going on a shopping binge to picking your nose here, people." That was met with a smattering of chuckles. "I don't care what works for you so long as it's not damaging."

"Baring our credit card debts," the frizzy-haired bun girl said with a smile of her own.

"Well, some of us will just have to steer clear of malls then, won't we, Jules?" The boy at her side nudged her with an elbow and they shared a knowing glance.

"Yeah, there is that," Sahra agreed. "Know your limits and what works for you. But don't feel the need to hold back please, guys. I want the conversation rolling today. We're looking for suggestions, sharing what you've tried and anything that has helped you specifically. Even share anything that hasn't been so helpful. If you've got an idea, let us know. Judgment free zone."

"Judgment free zone," a few of the others in the room echoed her. I guessed it was a bit of a mantra for Sahra, a foible that was realised and favoured by those in the room if the fond smiles that arose were anything to go by.

"Wonderful." Sahra shifted slightly, crossing her legs. "First off, though, we've got some new members today." Her gaze settled upon Scor and I in turn, that ever-present smile widening once more. "Would you both like to take a moment to introduce yourselves?"

This was not what I'd been expecting. At all. Where was the drilling, the twenty questions and the sombre atmosphere? Where was the nervous twitching, the uncomfortable, fidgeting glancing towards the door of the unwilling attendants? This wasn't what I'd anticipated from a support group; sure, attendance was technically voluntary, but I had been under the impression that everyone would be in a similar situation that I'd been cornered into by Mendez: it was suggested, but suggested _strongly_ , that I attend for my mental health and to assist my recovery with strong insinuations that if I didn't try this then something else would have to be attempted.

I had felt very much like a mouse caught by a cat.

These people in the room, though, from the boys and girls close in age to me to what were obviously family or friends and avid supporters – they didn't seem reluctant. They didn't seem resentful and they certainly didn't appear uneasy by any stretch if I ignored the girl that sat twitching sporadically across the circle from me. I don't think her state was induced by discomfort in the context, however. No, instead they all seemed at ease, positive in a way that I hadn't expected from recovering addicts.

In short, they just seemed like people. It wasn't until that moment that I realised I'd been unconsciously prejudiced towards them. Jeez, what an arse I was.

Confusion and, admittedly, a fair share of curiosity had served to stem the gently roiling pool of nervousness that had been sloshing in my gut all afternoon. No, this was not what I'd expected at all, and I didn't quite know what to do with this newfound knowledge. At Sahra's words, however, that roiling pool became once more subjected to the might and fury of a storm of rising panic.

Introduce myself? God, I didn't even think I could speak, let alone communication to any intelligible degree. I was pretty sure my tongue had receded down the back of my throat. I thanked whatever healer had first assigned the Maintenance Draught to people with anxiety disorders, because I was fairly certain I would have up and fled the room had it not kept a wavering hold on my upwelling of panic. I felt my eyes widen as I met Sahra's gaze and had to drop them back to my lap to avoid embarrassing myself. Or at least embarrassing myself more.

Scor saved me. As I'd come to experience several times over the past weeks, when he realised I was falling prey to irrationality he would step in like a bloody knight in shining armour and rescue me. I'd never seen myself as the damsel in distress kind of person – I actively strove to avoid such labelling, thank you very much – but I couldn't deny it. Scor did save me.

Clearing his throat, Scor nudged my knee gently once more in silent communication before speaking. "My name is Scorpius and this is Albus. We were recommended to come here by a healer to work through our issues together. I'm not going to lie, neither one of us is exactly eager to seek treatment or support, but after recent occurrences we've come to realise that we need to take action to change something." He paused to glance towards me. "I think that's probably about it."

At the mention of our names, I saw a couple of eyebrows raise. Almost everyone responded in some way, though nothing particularly overt. Well, except for the twitching girl who I noticed when peering up nervously from under my eyelashes was staring owlishly right at me. She didn't speak though and she only held my attention for a moment because after that Scor's words registered.

I turned my attention slowly towards him. What? What did he just say? Us? As in the both of us needed 'treatment'? What was… did he just…?

I was the disaster. I was the one that didn't have the self-control to but a lid on my urges well enough to stem my self-destructive tendencies. Scor, he was strong. I wholeheartedly believed that he would never cave to such urges. Such a desperate action would just simply not compute in his repertoire of responses. I fully understood that the primary reason he had still continued to use Happy Gum – because he was more of a Happy Gum guy than a Harproot user – was because Ozzy, Rhali and I did. After that initial support when he'd been sinking under the weight of his responsibilities, Scor hadn't needed it. Recreational use was a term never more suited to anyone than Scor.

So why had he said the both of us? He didn't truly think he needed it, did he? Or did he need actually the support? Was I completely missing something and didn't realise? Did _Scor_ need help too? What if –

The flood of questions slammed into a solid wall as I met Scor's eyes, as I studied his expression with almost frantic eyes. Then it all made sense, as it should have from the moment he spoke.

Oh.

He was doing it for me. Entirely for me.

He was talking about 'both of us' so that I didn't seem so alone. So that I wasn't put up on a pedestal by anyone in this room who seemed so completely devoid of people who would do such a thing. Because he knew I was nervous – which was about the understatement of the century. He knew I couldn't do it by myself.

Fighting back an upwelling of trembling tears, I reached for his hand and grasped it firmly. For the first time, I had exactly zero care for what anyone in the room would think of our holding hands. I _didn't care_. I just wanted to touch Scor, to convey in some small, inadequate way how much what he'd said and done meant to me. It was a little pathetic how choked up I became, but I didn't much care about that either. Scor's hand in mine, his pale eyes fixed softly upon me, were the centre of my world.

It took me a moment to realise that Sahra had begun talking again. "Thank you, Scorpius. And yes, that's more than enough. You should both feel free to share with us all as little or as much as you want to. We have only three rules and guidelines in here. One: your recovery is up to you; while I'm here to help, you should only move as fast as you feel is possible.

"Two: it's not wrong to feel urges or to experience intrusive thoughts, and if you experience any then it is integral that you understand that this is not wrong. You are not at fault. If you didn't have them at least a little bit, then you wouldn't need to be here in the first place.

"And three: this is a judgment free zone." Her words were echoed by smiling faces around the room who had evidently been waiting for her to reach that point in her introductory spiel. Sahra rolled her eyes but the motion didn't hide her own amusement in the slightest. "This is a safe area, and everyone here should feel that they can speak of their experiences without judgement. Nothing leaves this room."

Those final words were deliberate and low, not unkind or demanding but intense nonetheless. I got the impression that Sahra was talking as much to the rest of the room as to myself and Scor.

I appreciated that. Really, I did. But to be honest, I didn't think I'd be participating much in this session. Maybe in the future, but not this one. And it wasn't because I was frozen with nervousness or too ashamed to say anything. It was solely because I had locked my attention firmly upon the gorgeous blonde at my side who stared back at me with such compassion and affection that it would have caused Rhali to puke.

I didn't care. For the first time ever, I didn't care about PDAs. It took all of my control not to wrap my arms around Scor and simply hold him, attempting to convey my gratitude where words failed me. I didn't, but it was a near thing.

Instead, I simply held his hand. I felt ever contour of his long, slender fingers, the slight twitches of muscle as he shifted his grip to sit more comfortably. It might have been clingy of me to hold on so tightly, so unwaveringly, but I didn't care.

Scor held onto me just as tightly.


	20. Decisions Often Take A While To Make

Al had very dexterous hands.

Such details of another person I was not used to noticing. It wasn't a particularly useful piece of information, so I just tended not to. And yet I'd been staring at Al's hands for ten minutes at least, simply watching the way he tilted and wriggled the stick of charcoal between his fingers as he sketched on the parchment. I didn't even see the image he was drawing; it was a blossoming Octopedal Tress, I knew, but my gaze didn't shift towards it for a moment to draw from Al and his fingers.

The sun was just setting behind me through the wide square window in Al's room. The warm glow of mid-spring illuminated the pale walls in an orange cast, turning the myriad of potted plants, the bookshelf with its excessively botanical related content and the odd discarded shoe and jumper into a fiery pallor. I loved Al's room. It was just so _him_ , from the untidy but not quite messiness to quietness that was paradoxically loud for the colour and clutter of oddities to the very smell. And I loved Tuesday evenings even more because it was just the two of us. Thursday mornings were far too brief for my taste.

Rhali had wanted to come today. Well, Rhali wanted to come every Tuesday, but today more than most days she'd been adamant, so much so that Ozzy had to very deliberately tell her in slow tones that no, she was not coming, and that she should leave Al and I in peace. She'd grumbled something beneath her breathe about "finally having a Tuesday afternoon relatively free" but had eventually allowed herself to be swayed, with 'allowed' being the operative word.

I was thankful to Ozzy; bless him, he was perhaps the best support I could ask for in ensuring that Al and I got some quality time together. Although, in saying that, I should probably be grateful to Rhali, too. She was missing her best friend, and handling it less adeptly than Ozzy was though I knew the Gryffindor boy felt Al's absence keenly too. On Wednesday evenings Rhali, and usually Ozzy alongside her, had taken to Flooing over, but it didn't seem to be enough. She would have likely pushed for accompanying me every Tuesday, actually, except that she had extension Arithmancy on in the afternoon – something that I had been unaware was even a class until Rhali informed me of its existence. She was apparently the only member and had received special consideration by the mutual forces of Headmaster Tyril and our Arithmancy professor, Lyngo. I recall that in the past that would have vexed me to no end; why would Rhali get the opportunity to engage in extra study sessions, to push herself above and beyond with the support of a professor?

A lot had changed in the past two months, and more than simply my out-of-school visits to Godric's Hollow. Ozzy said I'd mellowed. I didn't know what he meant by that and didn't truly care enough to ask, but Rhali had informed me anyway that what Ozzy meant was that I'd 'finally removed the stick from up my arse'. So eloquent of her, as usual.

I wasn't sure how much I agreed with her. I knew I'd changed, if not exactly how or how much. I felt different, to be sure, but it was more than that. More because I realised after a period of blissful obliviousness that was ended by a rather abrupt and embarrassingly obvious realisation, that what I considered important had shifted.

Study was important. My future career was important. Maintaining a respectful and ideal persona at school was important as it provided a role model for my juniors.

But more important than that was Al. Al, and my friends. It was such an obvious conclusion, the _only_ conclusion, that I was a little stunned that I hadn't realised it before.

I had friends, yes. Phillippe and Drisella, Tatsuya and Hamish. Friends from older years, to be fair, and friends who I had known for almost my entire life. But those friends were different to Al, to Rhali and Ozzy. I cared for them dearly, but there would always be that slight distance between us, the deliberate spacing to remove any overt feelings of intimacy. I never had much of a chance – and never felt inclined to give myself one – of feel anything more for them.

But what happened with Al had been a splash of water in my face. Not even what I'd shared with Winona could compare – they were practically on different spectrums entirely. Yes, study was important and I endeavoured to ensure that all of my work was completed in an exemplary and timely manner. Yes, my future was important too, and I still spent many hours pondering over exactly where I was headed. Pondering and worrying. And yes, striving to present a model and respectable image was just as important for my own personal growth as it was for my underclassmen.

But none of that was quite as important as spending time with Al. I would never make the mistake to think that it was anything other again.

Not even Potions. Not even my father's company.

So I found myself, as I had often over the past few weeks – or months, really – simply watching Al. He lay upon the crinkled quilt, legs stretched along the length of his bed with eyes narrowed as he worked on the sketch. From memory, I might add, and such a talent was quite admirable in itself. And doing for me, because I had recently discovered that when compared to Al's skills with sketching, I was appalling. In the past I would have maintained my attempts to hash out an inaccurate sketch myself, but now? Well, I didn't need to know how to draw myself, and Al would certainly offer me a far better annotated depiction than I could create myself. And besides, I had more important things to do. Like watch Al.

"You know," Al spoke up, breaking me from my reverie. His voice was low and distant in the way of distractedness. "You've been staring at me for five minutes straight, now."

"Actually, it's more like ten," I corrected. I didn't feel the least bit embarrassed that I'd been caught out. I'd been spotted in my 'bird watching state' as Al called it so often that it was almost expected that he noticed nowadays.

Al glanced up from his sketch. "Don't you have an essay to write?"

I shrugged. "Not any that are due with any particular urgency."

"So you've finished the Transfiguration one due tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"And the Alchemy report for Friday?"

I snorted. "Honestly, Al, what do you take me for? I've not grown so lax as to leave my homework till the last minute." I paused, frowning. "You've finished yours, haven't you?"

Flashing me a half-smile before training his eyes speculatively back upon his sketch, Al nodded. "So little faith, Scor. _I'm_ not that bad either. Although… it's probably a pretty shit report."

"It's alright. Quillion knows your circumstances."

"I know. Every professor's been pretty lenient with me."

"They've reason to."

Al was silent for a moment, and I knew that silence to be disagreement. Al blamed himself for his situation, for whatever irrational reason he'd come up with, and I knew he wasn't entirely convinced that he should get 'special consideration' for those circumstances.

I, on the other hand, firmly agreed with the unanimous verdict of the professors. Contrary to what Al claimed, he was not entirely recovered. Not even after nearly two months of rest and medication. He still got tired more easily than he realistically should, and that paleness that had clung to him since I'd found him that horrible day in the Hufflepuff dorm hadn't lifted. The faint tinge of purple to his lips and ghostly paleness made him look like he was on the verge of hypothermia even on the warmest of days. It wasn't as bad as it had been at first but it was still distinctly different to his pallor from before his illness.

Still, it wasn't good to remind Al of that. He didn't like feeling like he was sickly or 'fragile', as he put it. It had been weeks since we'd started going to Sahra's support group – of which I naturally still accompanied him to – and he was only just coming to accept that it might be beneficial and embracing it to the extent that he actually conversed with the rest of the kids in the room. I knew it was hard for him, that he hated thinking that he had a problem despite everyone in the world reassured him that there was nothing _wrong_ with having a 'problem', but I believed it was doing him good. Doing both of us good. It was reassuring to hear the stories of others who'd been in similar, if not the same, circumstances. Comforting, even.

I watched as Al placed a few more dotted strokes to the sketch before holding it up. He tilted his head, frowning at the parchment critically, before he reached towards where I lounged in his desk chair and offered it to me.

I took it from him with a smile. "Thank you."

"That's okay. I know you suck at drawing."

"'Suck' is a rather strong word."

Al grinned back at me. "Strong but no less accurate."

I sighed. "True." I dropped my eyes to the parchment, to the perfect, anatomically correct blossoming Tress taking up nearly a foot of page. "Rhali will be jealous. I think she believes I'm coercing you into providing me with sketches."

Al chuckled, shaking his head. "Are you?"

"Of course I am. She doesn't have to know that, though."

Lounging back onto his bed, Al sighed, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "I should probably actually do her a sketch too. She's almost as bad as you are, and I do still owe her."

"You don't owe her," I enforced emphatically, raising my eyebrows pointedly at me when he turned towards me. "You know she was joking when she said that."

Al pursed his lips, frowning slightly. "I know it was a joke, but still, I appreciate that she looked after Caesar for me. I doubt many people would have even given him a second thought in the whole scheme of things."

"I highly doubt Caesar would have let himself be overlooked," I muttered, sparing a glance for said parrot huddled fluffed up and dozing on his pedestal in the corner of the room. He opened one eye to peer back at me with an accusing glare, as though sensing the weight of my gaze, before closing it again and burrowing further into his huddle. "Besides, if Rhali didn't then Ozzy or I would have. You don't have so little faith in us, do you?"

Smiling, still up at the ceiling, Al shook his head. "No, I believe you. Still, I'm thankful. Although, I suppose…" He trailed off and a sad, contemplative expression took the place of his smile.

"What?"

He glanced at me sideways, pursing his lips. A hand rose in the tell tale motion to card fingers through his hair. I doubt he even realised he was doing it. "Nothing in particular. Just that I suppose Neville would have spotted him when he came into the dorm. He'd have taken care of him."

"Professor Longbottom?" I frowned confused for a moment before understanding dawned. "Oh, you mean when –"

"Yeah."

I was silenced, my mind turning immediately to what I knew was Al's source of distress. We'd discussed it before, what had happened to his plants, but it was always in the presence of a professor, or his parents, or the support group. When it was just the two of us we steered clear from the topic. I'd come to realise that such avoidance strategies were used a lot by Al.

Suffice it to say that he'd had been devastated when Longbottom had told him, face tight with pain and regret, that he'd had to destroy all of the plants in the dorm. All of those that had been Al's in the greenhouse too, because apparently "it was unsure whether he'd perhaps spliced or hybridised them with something and it was better to be safe".

Heartbroken did not even begin to cover it. I remember it so clearly, nearly a week after Al had been emitted from hospital. The hype had died down surrounding the issue, and speculations from the media where drifting around in aimless circles of 'what happened to Harry Potter's son?' Thankfully, they appeared not to have found any further knowledge on the subject, though whether for lack of success entirely or because someone had paid every reporter and journalist in Britain to remain silent I wasn't sure. Surprisingly – to me, anyway – none of our fellow students had breathed a word of it either. That truly was astounding. After the way they'd reacted to the news that had contributed significantly to Al's impulsive actions, I'd have thought they would jump at the opportunity. Apparently not. Every one was as close-lipped as they'd been on the subject of Al, Rhali and Ozzy's using to the professors.

I had no idea why. I couldn't keep up, couldn't fathom the reason, and had long since resigned myself to being baffled by my fellow students at large.

I'd accompanied Longbottom alongside Rhali and Ozzy when he'd come to inform Al of what happened to the plants. To anyone else it would have been a trivial, inconsequential matter; after all, they were just plants. _I_ would have thought exactly the same not a year before. Now, though, I knew that such disregard wouldn't happen. Not with Al.

The moment Longbottom had said, "I'm so sorry Al. You know I couldn't keep them," I'd known he would crack. And he did. Not in front of Longbottom, nor in front of his parents who gazed upon him with expressions of sadness and sympathy. Yet ultimately they didn't understand, not even Longbottom really. I knew Al knew that too, for after staring at Longbottom blankly, paling even further than had become his norm until he looked more like an Inferi than a human teenager, he'd swallowed, pushed himself up from the table, and left the room without a word. I'd followed right on his heels and, when I'd found him fallen onto his knees just inside the door to his room, I'd discarded any possible feelings of awkwardness and immediately sunk down beside him. A hug didn't seem adequate, but I offered it anyway, and quietly held him as he dissolved into tears.

It was a memory I both hated and cherished. I hated it because of what it did to Al but then… it was selfishly comforting to know that he could cry to me when even his family, his godfather, he fled from.

Al got a certain cast to his expression whenever he thought of his destroyed plants. It was that look tightened his features as he readjusted his gaze back to the ceiling. It hurt to look at because I knew it meant that he was hurting. And in that instant, I knew I had to tell him. That though I shouldn't, though it might have been detrimental to him at large, I couldn't leave him so sinking into melancholy.

"You…" I cleared my throat, unsure of how to continue. "Your Harproot was the first one you grew, wasn't it?"

Al flickered his eyes towards me from their aimless staring, curiosity and questioning momentarily overriding the wistful sorrow. "The first? No, it wasn't the first one. I grew a couple before that."

"But they didn't last, did they? I mean, your Harproot, it was your oldest one." I paused, then, "Your favourite?"

Slowly, Al raised himself from reclining to sitting. His expression was a mixture of growing curiosity and wariness, as though he – very rightly – didn't know where I was headed with the conversation and feared the worst. "Yes…"

I swallowed down the urge to clear my throat once more. How did I start? I didn't even know how he would respond to my revelation. Would he even be happy for what I'd done? "I offered to take Caesar, you know. When Rhali went to get him, Ozzy and I came along. I doubt Grettle would have let her in at all if I hadn't been there. Rhali doesn't quite seem to grasp the concept of asking politely."

An exasperated grin tugged at my lips. Al didn't return it, still regarding me with faint wariness, and my smile quickly faded. "I asked her if she wanted me to take him, but she said he was less familiar with me so I'd likely have trouble with him."

"Yeah, he has his favourites," Al murmured. He looked baffled as to where I was going with the conversation. I couldn't blame him. Why was this so hard to say?

"Yes, that was what she said too. She actually looked grateful for a second though, so I figure my suggestion didn't go entirely unheeded. Perhaps she did worry that I would just try and take him, though, because she was pretty quick in gathering him up and leaving without another word."

I took a deep breath. Here goes, then. "So the thing is, we went pretty much as soon as we could because Dillon approached us and said no one else could get close enough to Caesar to feed him and retain their fingers. And when we were there we… the Harproot was still there." I peered at Al with my own rising guardedness. He was frozen like a deer caught in a petrifying spell, on knee risen and hugged closely to his chest. I was given the impression of a child clutching at a toy for comfort.

"It was my idea but I wouldn't have known how to do it without Ozzy there. Neither of us are quite up to your standard with plants, but I suppose he's picked up a thing or two over the years just being around you. We…" Here it was. Anger? Upset? Horror? I didn't know how he'd respond. Would he maybe even be happy, as I'd hoped he would be when I'd decided to do it? "We took a cutting of the Harproot. Just something small. I didn't… we thought that perhaps, in the future maybe, you might like to keep it. When you've recovered, perhaps."

I had no idea if it was a good idea. It probably wasn't. The support group said that the most effective way to avoid relapse, especially in early days, was to vanquish temptation as much as possible. I was certain that having the very plant Al had used and had contributed to what he – and now everyone else – called his 'illness' would be classified as a temptation. And yet at the same I knew how much the plant meant to him, even if I knew I would never feel such an attachment to a sprout myself. To Al, the Harproot was more than just a drug.

Al still hadn't moved. He simply stared at me, wide-eyed and unblinking, and for a long moment I wondered if perhaps he hadn't heard me. I knew he sometimes fell into an almost sleep-like state from the clinical exhaustion he was prey to, though I thought such incidents had just about been abolished in recent weeks.

Finally, however, he spoke. His voice was so faint, so choked, I could barely make it out. "You… you took a cutting of the Harproot?"

I dropped my eyes from his. Not because he was accusing, but because I simply _couldn't tell_. Each response I'd anticipated… I couldn't recognise any of them. This might have even been worse. "I… _we_ did. I have it, at school. In my dormitory, if you can believe it." I shook my head ruefully. "Can you imagine me caring for a plant? Me?"

"You took a cutting?" Al repeated.

Something in his voice urged me to look up. His expression was still unreadable, but the glistening in his eyes, the wateriness that threatened to break and cascade down his cheeks, was very telling. I felt a flicker of panic and had to reassure myself that he wasn't actually crying yet, that he was very obviously making an active attempt to hold himself together.

No yet. He hadn't snapped yet.

I nodded slowly. "I did. I just… wanted you to have _some_ thing of it. And maybe," I gave another rueful smile that held little mirth. "Maybe I wanted something too. After all, I'd never have met you if not for the Harproot, in a roundabout sort of way."

Al nodded slowly in return. He bit his lip and I could see his hands trembling but… not yet. He still hadn't snapped.

"I know that I probably won't be able to give it to you. At least not for a while. That might be a little counter-productive, if you understand what I mean. But even if I don't, maybe just knowing that it exists…?"

Al didn't move, not even when I'd finally managed to stem the flow of my awkward words. I wasn't usually one to feel self-conscious about others opinion of me, nor to get unnerved by perceived judgement. I'd always been strong in my beliefs of how I saw myself, unwavering and resolute.

That had changed with Al. I very much desired his good opinion. So much that it was almost on par with that same desire I had to receive my father's approval, though this in an entirely different way. So when Al stared at me, eyes still wide and swimming and expression still unreadable, I felt an unprecedented upwelling of nervousness flood through me.

"I… I apologise. Truly, I'm sorry if my actions upset you." I pressed my lips together for a moment. "It's only that I knew Longbottom would likely have to destroy the plant, and I know how much it meant to you –"

My words were cut off. Forcibly. In a motion so fast I didn't even see him move, Al launched himself from the bed and flung himself on top of me. I barely had the chance to gasp as my breath was forced from my lungs before he'd wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips to my own.

It was almost a violent attack in those first seconds. There was no finesse, only desperation and _feeling_ , so much feeling that Al conveyed with his clutching hold around me, through the pressure of his lips against my own. And yet rapidly, like slipping into a familiar dance, that awkwardness faded. Unexpected as it was, I felt my body respond almost before my mind. My arms slipped around his waist, holding him against me as he unconsciously adjusted himself on my lap, and tilted my head to deepen our kiss. And that violence, the blast of passion, sizzled into something more… sedate. Sedate and yet no less intense.

It took another moment of locked lips, of sucking and nipping, of sinking readjustments until we almost melded together for me to fully register what was happening. Gratitude. I'd worried that Al would be angry, that he would feel betrayed that I hadn't told him of what I'd done before now.

He wasn't. Anger couldn't be further from reality. It only served to show me that, regardless of how well I liked to think I knew Al, there was so much more that I didn't know.

The heavy weight of him upon me was intoxicating. It wasn't as though we'd undergone any particular lacking of intimacy – I didn't think Al or I would ever be able to do that – but this felt different. There was the lust, the almost visible desire and heated of passion, there was the gentleness and tenderness that had grown only in the past month or two, but underneath that there was something else.

Something more.

Al was cradling my head in his hands as he explored my mouth with his tongue, licking at my lips and pulling away only for a moment before diving back in again to impress a kiss once more. I was bound in his firm hold, and couldn't have moved if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't. My senses were a riot of heightened attentiveness, flooded with the smell, the taste, and the _feel_ of Al as I leant into each kiss, sliding my own tongue through his lips, sucking on his lower lip. All the while, as he held me firmly in place, I found my own caging arms drawing him closer, closer, in a squeezing hold of _never let go_.

When we finally broke apart, it was to gasps and breathless panting. Al slowly opened his eyes, meeting my own from barely a hands breadth away. There was a deep intensity to the passionate darkness of his gaze that seemed to spear straight through me.

"Scor."

His voice was barely a whisper, almost a croak, as though it were a strain to speak. I leant in to brush my lips across his once more in a feather-light touch. He sighed warmly against me and I drew in his breath like a drowning man tasting life-giving air. I closed my eyes and simply felt him; the gentleness of his hands cupping my head, the hard press of his legs pressed along my thighs from where he'd somehow managed to straddle me, the soft shifting as he took each breath and _Merlin_ did I love to hear the sound of him breathing. Did that make me strange? Would anyone else understand that? Would they even -?

"I love you."

My eyes snapped open but for a moment I couldn't see. Those three simple words echoed in my ears and consumed everything. Nothing was as important to me in that moment as _hearing those words_.

Slowly, blinking, I drew my gaze up to meet Al's once more. They were still sparkling, still lust-blown, but there was a softness to them that mirrored the small smile touching his lips.

"What?"

"I love you," he repeated, and somehow it resounded even more warmly in my ears this time. "I should have told you so ages ago. I should have told you the second you said the same to me. Before that, even. I don't know why I didn't. I'm a bit of an idiot like that, I guess."

 _No. You're not_. I wanted to say the words, wanted to correct him, but I couldn't quite force them out. My mind was locked, fixated upon that simple confession as something within me unfurled and blossomed.

 _I love you_.

I didn't realise how much I'd wanted to hear Al say it until that moment. How much I'd been ignoring the nervousness at not hearing my own words reciprocated when I'd first offered them. It seemed almost foolish now, to feel worried at such a lack of verbalisation. Everything in Al in that moment, from his gaze to the hold of his hands to the sincerity of his expression, spoke to me. He loved me.

There was nothing else that I could possibly do in that moment except for drown in his lips once more. And drown I did. Gladly.

Al seemed just as ready to do so as I.

It was a natural progression. Such an admission, a realisation of mutual feelings, could not be reconciled without becoming as closely bound as two individuals possibly could. I'd always considered 'making love' to be something of a euphemism for 'sex'; they were essentially the same thing, only that the former was romanticised by the poets of the world.

I was wrong. Not to say that our intimacy had not been genuine or laced with feeling before, but this time, when we fell into one another on Al's bed, there was something more to the moment. More, and deeper, and vaster. It wasn't rushed, because time didn't matter. There was no frantic shedding of clothing, no haphazard pressing of bodies to gain the immediate satisfaction of physical contact, no careless pursuit of personal gratification.

This was different.

I cradled him as he wrapped himself around me. I caressed his bared skin that triggered a ripple of goose bumps across every limb in synchrony to his fingers combing through my hair. And when I finally, slowly, parted him beneath me, settling myself between his legs, it was in the unconscious, distracted motions of one completely focused upon the beauty that lay before me, the feel of Al's lips on my own as I couldn't bear to draw them away. It was only at his mumbled urging that I even developed the presence of mind to push into him.

That was different, too. Familiar, the same heat, the same tightness, the same overwhelming feeling of bliss, yet different. My gasp of pleasure was met by Al's echoing gasp as he arched beneath me, wrapping his arms in a latching hold around my neck even as his legs crossed over my back in a similar lock. It was an awkward position perhaps, but I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Rolling my hips into him, I set up a slow, undulating pace. It took barely moment for the both of us to be left trembling beneath the sheer pleasure of sensations. Al rocked his hips back against me, each movement sending volts of heat to my mind and shooting sparks across my eyes. Slow became fast, careful and steady morphing into urgent and fierce. I drove into him with panting thrusts, the blurring image of his flushing face and parted lips doing something to me that I had absolutely no control over.

It was enrapturing.

It was passionately intense.

I couldn't have lasted long if I'd tried. If I'd wanted to. Which I didn't really. I was living in the moment, in the sheer joy, and when I reached a climax and lost myself to blinding pleasure and a gasping cry, it could have been seconds or hours of consummation and I wouldn't have cared. All that concerned me was the feel of Al beneath me, of the gasping of his breaths and the sudden tightness around my flagging arousal as he quivered and came but moments after me.

Perfection didn't begin to cover it.

I fell on top of Al limply, with only the presence of mind to prop myself on my elbows to avoid crushing him beneath me. Our breaths panted in synchrony, the sweat-dampened skin of our chests touching briefly with each inhalation. I didn't want to move, didn't think I could, not even to draw myself from him, but Al didn't seem to mind. His legs settled across my back loosely, his arms still locked around my neck and fingers stroking at the soft tufts of hair at my nape. My forehead dropping to his shoulder, and I found I couldn't speak – for perhaps one of the first times in my life, I was left completely speechless. But that hardly seemed to matter because Al…

"I love you, Scor."

I would never grow tired of hearing those words.

* * *

I stayed at Al's house that night. It probably wasn't the best idea, not when I had class early the next morning, but for the first time in my life – well, not the first time, but I hardly considered myself sane in the days following Al's near death experience – I was fully prepared to skip a day. Anything to remain wrapped around Al in his bed that was really too small for the both of us. Not that either of us really cared.

I thought I'd awoken first and so attempted to remain immobile to avoid waking Al at my side. The arm crushed beneath him had gone numb, and likely his own beneath me had too, but I didn't really care about that either. What was a little bit of nerve damage to the sheer satisfaction of holding the boy I loved as he slept?

Or didn't sleep. I must have made some movement, tensed perhaps, for not a minute after I awoke Al opened his eyes. They were almost completely free of the bleariness that usually shrouded them so I suspected he'd been awake for a while.

"Hey," he murmured, offering me a small smile.

"Good morning." I fidgeted slightly, my resolution to remain frozen broken almost as soon as it was made. "You're awake before me."

"I know. What are the odds?"

"About a million to one."

"Try a billion. I doubt it will ever happen again."

We smiled at one another, as much for the supposed exaggeration as because it was, likely, quite true. It was barely past five in the morning, I gauged from the thin, dull sliver of light that peeked through the curtains, and Al had always been a long sleeper. Not so much deep but extensive, and even more so after his illness had set its teeth into him.

I wondered what had awoken him, but as though reading my mind Al answered before I could ask. "It was nice, getting the chance to see you sleep for once."

I shifted my head slightly on the pillow, raising an eyebrow. "You like watching me sleep?"

Al grinned. "I could watch you sleep forever. You look like a beautiful little baby, all dopey and snoring." He patted my cheek fondly, as though I truly were an infant. It didn't bother me as much as it perhaps should have.

"I don't snore," I contradicted. "I know that for a fact."

"Oh, for a fact, do you?"

"Most definitely. I'm a light sleeper. I'd surely wake myself up if I did."

Al gave a soft laugh and shook his head. Our conversation effectively ceased after that and, like a wriggling puppy, Al snuggled further into our embrace and immediately feel into a sleepy doze. I was perfectly happy to simply hold him, numb arm and all.

We did eventually surface, however, when a knock on the door caused us both to jolt into sitting. Blessedly, no one entered the room, but Ginny's muffled voice seeped through the wood nonetheless. "Al, you should probably get up. Scorpius, I thought you might appreciate the wake up call; I'm sure you don't want to be late for school."

"Thank you, Mrs Potter," I called softly. I could feel a flush heating my cheeks; evidently Al's family knew I'd stayed the night, and likely knew exactly what we'd been up to as well, but that knowledge didn't ease my discomfort at all. If anything it actually made it worse.

"You're very welcome. And it's Ginny, dear," Ginny replied, before the soft shuffle of her footsteps announced her departure down the hallway.

When I turned back to Al, he was smirking, scratching idly at his sleep-mussed hair. "Oh, don't look so embarrassed, you prude."

"I would hardly call myself a prude." I sighed. "Can you honestly tell me that had my mother found us in a similar position at my own house that you wouldn't be similarly embarrassed?"

Al's smile faded into an expression of thoughtfulness, then into growing horror. "Fair point."

"Exactly."

We clambered from bed, dressing hastily, myself casting a quick Freshening Charm on my robes and vanquishing them of wrinkles. Al threw on a pair of jeans and jumper himself before we headed downstairs.

Ginny had baked up a delicious breakfast of poached eggs and beans on toast that we both fell upon in an instant. After I'd thanked her of course, for one can never forget the simple courtesies. Ginny beamed at me as though I'd just given her the most profuse compliment in existence. She even flushed slightly before setting herself down beside us to tuck in herself.

About halfway through the meal I became aware of the glances Al and his mother were sharing. They really weren't all that subtle, much and all as Ginny's brief, flickering glances towards me may have suggested otherwise. She didn't speak, but I got the impression words were itching to spill from her tongue.

Al eventually relieved her of her discomfort. "It's alright, Mum. I don't mind."

"Are you sure?" Ginny frowned at her son. "We can probably wait until –"

"I don't mind if Scor sees. He already knows I take it and everything." Al scooped up another spoonful of beans and shrugged. When he glanced towards me, however, there was a questioning note to his gaze, a faint worry.

Oh. Yes, I'd almost forgotten. Al was supposed to take his potion first thing in the morning. I'd heard all about the infamous potion; Al had been hesitant to share exactly what it was and what it did with me at first, but after a time the truth had spilled out. It sounded… truly, it sounded appalling. I hated the thought of him having to go through that every day. More than that, the realisation of just how deeply and pervasively Al struggled with his stress, with anxiety, had been a bit of a wake up call. Since then – although, truth be told, I'd already started a bit before that – I'd read just about every book I could get my hands on that even mentioned anxiety disorders. It was one of the most fascinating, confusing and confronting things I'd ever committed myself to studying.

At the proffered yet unspoken question, I gave Al a small smile. No, he didn't have to wait. If anything, I _wanted_ to be there for him. Anything to offer some support because I –

Wow. There was honestly nothing I wanted more than to be there for him. Absolutely nothing. Of course I already knew that but… well, it had never hit me so starkly as it did in that moment.

At Al's murmur of agreement, Ginny rose to her feet and made her way into the kitchen to clatter through a cabinet. She returned a moment later with an hourglass-shaped vial of rich grass-coloured liquid and a glass of water, which she combined into a pale, diluted green. She handed it to Al and settled herself beside him once more.

Al paused in the act of raising the glass to his lips. He frowned at the potion, but when he spoke it was to me. "Sorry about this. I'm usually completely out of it for about half an hour. You can go if you'd like."

Like hell I would. I shrugged with false nonchalance. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You'll be late for school."

"I don't mind."

Al flashed me a disbelieving glance. "Bullshit."

"Albus," Ginny muttered in reprimand, though she looked more on the verge of smiling than scolding.

Al dropped his attention back to the potion once more. "Sorry, Mum," he apologised, though there was not a hint of remorse in his words. A moment later and he downed the drink in one go.

I couldn't help but smirk at the expression of disgust that pasted a grimace upon his face. "Tasteful?"

"Disgusting," Al replied with an exaggerated shiver. He immediately ate another spoonful of beans in an obvious attempt to wash away the lingering taste.

It didn't take long to kick in. I supposed it was a good thing that Al had eaten most of his breakfast before taking the potion. He didn't even get in another mouthful before he seemed to sag. Leaning forwards slightly in his seat, he dropped his forehead into one hand, eyes glazing and trailing downwards to stare at the table. He didn't seem to notice when Ginny eased the plate out from before him. It was like he was dead to the world.

I hated it. It was one of the most horrible things I'd ever seen, with the only exception being when he'd appeared dead before me. My Al was gone completely from his expression, his face wiped utterly blank. Dazed didn't begin to cover it, and when I reached forwards to wrap my fingers around his free hand he barely responded at all save to slightly tilt his head towards me. Blank. Expressionless.

I didn't know if I felt better or worse for having seen it. For having known exactly what happened when he took his potion.

Ginny bustled around the kitchen to the side of the dining table, muttering to herself between stilted questions thrown towards me. She was attempting to be comforting, to distract me, I realised, though she needn't have bothered. Her questions were very obviously superficial and only half-attending, and I personally didn't feel much inclination to reply to her. I was fully focused upon the vacant face of my boyfriend as he worked through whatever perceived terrors his mind presented to him with detached proficiency.

Like clockwork, almost to the minute, Al resurfaced after half an hour. Blinking as though truly awakening from sleep, he slowly turned his head to glance around himself. A small smile spread waveringly across his face when his eyes finally rested on me and his fingers finally gave mine a slight squeeze. "You're still here?"

"Of course," I replied. I didn't expect the slight choking of my throat, but Al didn't seem to notice it at all. Or perhaps he was just being kind in overlooking it.

Ginny retreated from the kitchen and stepped up beside him, placing a hand on Al's shoulder and dropping a kiss onto his crown. "He held your hand the entire time, you know."

Al glanced at our clasped hands and his expression softened. "Thanks," he murmured. I could only shrug in reply, holding his gaze in an attempt to convey everything I couldn't say.

Ginny glanced between the two of us for a moment, obviously hesitant to interrupt us. Finally, she spoke. "Scorpius, I'm sorry but you really must get back to school. Classes have already started."

I cast a glance over my shoulder at the old grandfather clock stationed at the end of the dining room. "So they have," I mused. I searched myself for a moment but… no. I didn't really care. What on earth had happened to me? "I probably should go." I glanced back towards Al. "What are you doing today?"

Before he could even reply, Ginny spoke up once more. "Oh, I meant to ask you actually, Al. Graham from Hilton Nursery fire-called this morning. He asked if you could drop by as soon as you got a chance."

Al glanced up towards his mother quizzically. "Me? Why?"

"Well, he said he would have asked for Neville if he hadn't been at school, but said you were just as good." She smiled with the pride of an obviously doting mother. "Apparently the Dew Bells have blossomed and he needs some help collecting the nectar for an order."

"The Dew Bells!" Al straightened, his fingers tightening unconsciously upon my own in his excitement. "Really? Oh, fantastic! Yeah, I'll head straight over today." He flashed a wide smile towards me, contrasting so completely with how he'd been not five minutes before that it was almost disconcerting. "Dew Bells only blossom if their time syncs up with the full moon. I've never seen them before myself." He shifted enthusiastically in his seat as though he was simply desperate to jump up and race to the nursery immediately.

I couldn't help but smile. It was such a beautiful thing to see, that he was so passionate about his plants. More beautiful after what I'd just witnessed. Even after all that had happened, after all that his dreams and the repercussions of them had caused, he still loved it so much. There was not the faintest tinge of shadow to that love.

I marvelled at such dedication. If it were me, if I'd been so embedded in potions and the world had been so disapproving of it… Really, in the absence of knowing exactly what had really happened, the _Daily Prophet_ and the plethora of rag magazines had raised the story of Al's university plans more times than I could count, in both positive and – more often – negative lights. But since that first bout of horror and terror, Al didn't seem to take it to heart. Or, well, he still became uncomfortable, still expressed his mortification over their deductions, but it didn't change his mind in the slightest.

Yes, I truly admired that. If more people followed their dreams, disregarding the opinions and expectations of others, I thought the world would be a much better place.

It was like a light bulb moment. In the face of Al's enthusiasm, I couldn't think of anything _but_ potions. Al and Potions, the two most important things to me in the world. Stupidly, perhaps, but even after making my mind up, that I would abandon what Rhali called my 'passion', I knew I loved it.

What had possessed me to abandon it so easily in the first place?

When I rose to my feet to make my way to the Floo, Al rose beside me. He was all smiles now, the effects of the potions rapidly falling away, and right in front of his mother wrapped his arms around me and planted a kiss directly onto my lips. I drew away with a smile that mirrored his own and he grinned wider.

"Love you."

"I love you, too."

It was that which gave me the final nudge, the final boost of confidence. Leaving Al in the dining room, I slung my school bag over my shoulder and headed into the living room and its fireplace. Throwing the Floo powder into the dying hearth, a burst of green flames sputtered into existence.

Miranda Weatherwell's Office, Hogwarts. That was the fireplace kept open for me.

As I stepped into the flames, I clearly pronounced my destination. "Draco Malfoy's Office, LeFay Connected, Westminster."

Godric's Hollow disappeared in a swirl of green.

* * *

No one entered my father's office. Not without express permission and an appointment booked weeks if not months in advance. Even as his son, I'd only been in there four times in my entire life. In hindsight, it was actually surprising that the Floo was even open. I was thankful for it nonetheless, however; I didn't much fancy hitting a solid, impassable wall and rebounding back into the Potter fireplace from whence I'd come.

Stepping out onto polished hardwood floors, I swept my gaze around the room. It was a large, open area, with floor to ceiling windows consuming one wall behind a desk nearly as expansive as the width of the room. Heavy shelving laden beneath books and files lined every inch of wall space save for the door to enter the room and another leading, if memory served me correctly, into the adjacent conference room. Only the most important of meetings were ever held there. Other than that, the only two noticeable items in the room where a pair of wide, thinly cushioned and deceptively comfortable-looking wooden chairs before the desk.

That, and the figure of Draco Malfoy seated behind that desk

My father was scanning a bleached-white parchment scroll held aloft in his hands, a slight frown on his face as his eyes darted across the page. He was clad in light, bottle-green robes of the most modern yet refined fashion, his receding hair perfectly combed, and was the picture of elegance even in stillness. That elegance I knew from both personal experience and word of mouth, was intimidating in itself. That was my father. And it was that very image that had cowed me yet driven me to my fullest potential my entire life.

I was not cowed now, however. I was resolute, determined. Decided.

My father turned his frown towards me at my entrance. His eyebrows rose in surprise that immediately crinkled into an even deeper frown than before. "Scorpius, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at school?" His frown lowered further. "Is something wrong?"

That voice was threatening as well as concerned, the very deliberate mix of worry and 'whatever it was, it had better not be your fault or you'll live to regret it'. I'd never quite seen the full extent of my father's wrath, but I could anticipate it to be fierce. The lingering threat of its arousal had left me a cautious and obedient child in my early years.

I threw that caution to the wind as I stepped flush up to the desk. Father's gaze flickered automatically – perhaps unintentionally – towards the seats behind me, but I didn't take one of them. I didn't intend to be here that long anyway. I was late for school, after all.

"Father, nothing is wrong. There is no catastrophe upon the horizon. At least not as I perceive it."

Father's frown didn't ease in the slightest. He settled back into his chair, regarding me ponderously. "Then what –?"

"I've made a decision, Father. A decision that I truly should have made many years ago." Here it was. I took a deep breath. "Father, I do not wish to become a part of your company. I have thought for many years that I did, but the truth is that I was merely seeking your approval in following in your footsteps. It is not my inclination, nor my desire, to truly become an employee of LeFay Connected. I truly do not believe that it would suit me in the slightest."

Father's eyes flashed darkly and I worried for a moment if I'd taken a step too far, that Father was about to explode. I ploughed onwards, however, struggling to complete my impromptu speech before the storm broke and lightning struck. "I am sorry. I'm sorry for what this may mean for you, for your company, for your plans for me. But I cannot work for LeFay." I paused, shaking my head in a self-deprecating way. "It does not sit with me. If I'm being honest, I do not even fully understand the purpose of the company at all. I cannot fathom your overall goal. No matter how many books I read and how many files I skim, it is… unintelligible. You always said I was smart, Father, so why does it not make sense to me?"

A second later I knew I'd pushed too far. The flash sparked in Father's eyes once more, a vein pulsing in his forehead and his jaw tightened. He took a deep breath to steady his very obviously rising anger. "It is quite simple, Scorpius. LeFay Connected is a network of high-class wizards who fund and support –"

"You can tell me as many times as you wish, Father, but I will not retain it. I have tried – truly – but I can't. Perhaps it is because I do not want to." I took a deep breath of my own. "I am sorry, Father. Truly sorry. I don't mean to burden you, or disappoint you, but I felt it best you know."

Father stared at me. And stared. And stared. His eyes narrowed, the vein in his forehead throbbing slightly, but he was otherwise still. When he finally spoke, it was only his lips that moved, and they just barely. "And in which direction, pray tell, do you intend to go if not into my company?"

I might have imagined the slight hiss to his words. It was definitely exaggerated in my mind, but even that knowledge didn't prevent my knees from becoming slightly weak. Shamefully, yes, but undeniably nonetheless.

"If truth be told, Father, I do not expressly know." At another throbbing of his vein, I hastened to continue. "Not exactly, at least. But I knew the field at least. Father, I wish to be a Potioneer. I do not know as of yet how I intend to pursue that career, nor the steps I've to take, but that is my intention." I bowed my head slightly, suddenly unable to meet Father's eyes. "Other than that, I have not yet made any decisions."

My words were met by silence. It buzzed almost painfully in my ears and I felt an odd sweep of warmth flush through me, followed immediately by a chill. I didn't know whether I should say something more, apologise again, or simply leave.

Father took the decision out of my hands when he spoke in a low voice. "Is this Albus Potter's influence?"

Abruptly, my mood shifted. I still couldn't look at Father, but for an entirely different reason this time. I didn't want him to see the rising fury in my eyes. "No, Father, this has nothing to do with Al… bus. He has been nothing but supportive of my future at LeFay."

More silence. It was eerie, uncomfortable. Strained and almost quivering. I heard the slight squeak of Father's seat as he shifted, but he didn't speak. Only silence ensued.

Finally, I couldn't wait any longer. We must have been held in a state of frozen tension for minutes now. I slowly raised my gaze to peer at Father, keeping my chin slightly bowed. Anger still remained, but it was steadily fading to hover with similar intensity to the remaining coil of nervousness settled in my gut.

Father was staring at his desk. He leant back in his chair, almost as though he was pulling away from me, with an elbow propped on one arm and a hand pressed over his lips. A frown still wrinkled his brow, and though it could have been wishful thinking on my part, it seemed more thoughtful than viciously disapproving and spitting fury.

As though sensing my gaze, he broke his silence. Though he didn't lift his gaze to look at me, it was clear not only from the absence of an other occupants of the room but from the slow, deliberate, measured tone of his voice that he spoke directly to me. I recognised that tone; it was one I'd never been able to forget, even though he hadn't used it since I was a child.

"Scorpius, take yourself to school. We will speak of this another time."

That was it. That and only that, short and final.

I didn't complain. I knew I probably should have attempted to say more, to apologise again perhaps, but I couldn't. And I hesitate to say that I fled, but as I strode through the crackling Floo back towards Hogwarts it felt very much like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! Hope you liked the chapter. If you did - or you have anything else to say - please leave a comment. Thank you!


	21. Finding My Sea Legs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Somehow this chapter also ended up to be mildly philosophically preachy. And fluffy. Sorry for that but not really :)

_~Scorpius~_

School changed for me after that. Not in any overt way, no, but my mindset made it seem somehow… different.

I'd always studied with passion, but by the same token it always studying _for_ something. I hadn't lied to Father when I told him I could not truly comprehend the goal and function of LeFay connected; it was a networking company, one that sold shares to minor businesses, actively seeking to integrate the purebloods, the nobility, and their wealth into the economy. I knew this, but I didn't truly _understand_ it. It didn't resound with me. And so, when I studied, I studied broadly and thoroughly, sucking up every iota of knowledge I could discern for the possibility that it would be, even in some small way, useful.

Now, my studying was different. I still studied with passion – I knew I would always feast on knowledge in such a way – but it had no purpose. And that made everything different.

I wasn't going to pretend I was alright with that. At first, it seemed that my resolution to cast myself adrift from the future my father had set for me would be liberating. That though I would be perhaps ashamed of discounting him and his life's work, I would know for certain that I had made the right decision.

I didn't know that for certain. I'd never been further from certainty in my entire life.

Regret was something that I wasn't unfamiliar with. Regret that leads to what Al would most likely call brooding. The regret and horror clinging to my memory, to the reality of what I'd done, certainly drew me into a brooding state. It was only niggling at first, but within days of confronting my father and effectively resigning from the future I'd believed set for me for over half of my life, that itch became a scratch, which grew and manifested to a consuming degree. It was so pervasive that it began to affect even my readiness to study. Where but a week before I had been distracted by simply staring at Al, my distraction was now just as likely to be triggered by melancholic mulling and my new mantra of _what did I do, what_ do _I do, what have I done_ that ran on constant repeat as a sort of background music.

Ozzy asked me what was wrong. Even Rhali looked marginally worried by what she too called my 'brooding'.

I blamed the occupation of my thoughts by such negativity that it didn't occur to me that Al would notice. More than simply noticing, he objected to it. The following Tuesday, seated at the dining table in Al's house with the distant clatter of Ginny in the living room breaking the silence, I was forcibly drawn from my thoughts by an almost painful jab of a bony elbow in my ribs.

Frowning, I blinked up from my parchment and unwritten essay and turned to Al. "Yes? Is something wrong?"

Al stared at me with a thoughtful frown on his own face. No, not just thoughtful. Worried. It took me a moment to realise he was concerned, and that such concern was for me. I blamed the now constant distraction running rings through my mind. "You tell me."

"Excuse me?"

Folding his arms across his own parchment – which I noticed guiltily had significantly more of his slanted scrawl across its surface than my own sheet did – he raised a pointed eyebrow at me. "You're thinking about what happened with your Dad."

"Please don't call him Dad," I corrected mechanically. It still sounded absurd, no matter how many times Al called my father that.

Al, predictably, ignored me. "And I think I know why."

"How very perceptive of you." No, I was not in a very forgiving mood that evening. The day had been far too long.

Al's eyebrow only rose slightly further. "Shut up for a minute, Scor. I'm helping you."

"Is that what you're doing," I muttered, dropping my eyes to my parchment. 'Polar Temperature Regulation Charms and Their Comparisons'. A title; that was the only thing that I'd written for the last twenty minutes. "I hadn't noticed."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Scor."

My gaze drew sideways towards Al at that. "What are you talking about?"

Though his words had been jibing and condescending, Al's gaze was intense and touched with concern. "With your Dad. You're allowed to choose what you want to do with your life, you know. You shouldn't have to follow in his footsteps just because he's went in a particular direction."

"On the contrary, I believe that's what is expected of me."

Al shrugged. "Why should you have to do exactly what's expected of you? You know I haven't."

I did know that. Knew and marvelled still at the sheer decisiveness of what Al had chosen to pursue with his life. It had been one of the things that had driven me into finally realising that being the heir to LeFay Connected was not, in fact, what I wanted. Not at all. Still, such knowledge didn't make it any easier to come to terms with the sheer loss of structure and incentive. What did I work towards if not that? Potioneering was all well and good to pursue, but where did I even start? As a brewer? An experimenter? Should I go to college and further learn or attempt to apprentice myself to someone? Did I even have to? Would the very fact that I'd achieved a N.E.W.T in potions qualify me to work in the industry?

Or was it not enough?

There was no firm, solid direction, and that worried me more than anything I had ever considered. Cast adrift was indeed a very apt description of how I felt at the moment.

Lost in my thoughts, it was to the feel of Al patting my hand in a consolatory manner that drew me back to the present. Replacing his concern was an expression of understanding, Al's small smile was a little sad but somehow seemed to express confidence at the same time. "Sorry. I don't think I did actually understand what was bothering you. I just assumed. I think… no, I've got it now."

I frowned, shaking my head at him. "What _are_ you talking about? Are you actually even talking to me?"

"Well, I'm not talking to myself, funnily enough." He flapped a shushing hand at me as I opened my mouth to speak. "Just hold on a second and let me finish. I think I get it. You don't know what you want to do with yourself now, is that it?"

Was that it? That was bloody well it exactly. I could almost swear Al had used Legilimens on me had it not been for the fact that my eyes had been downcast. That, and that Al was truly appalling at any sort of mind-magic. I quirked my lips, hiding the foreboding that arose as my thoughts, my current mental status, was so plainly splayed before me. I wanted to deny it to Al – I didn't much feel inclined to confess such a weakness of character in myself – but at the openness of his face cocked towards me I simply couldn't.

I nodded slowly, resignedly. "I suppose."

Al flashed me a beaming smile that irrationally made me feel distinctly better just for the sight of it. "That's your main problem, Scor. You're overthinking this."

"You're telling _me_ I'm overthinking things?" I widened my eyes dubiously at him. It was a little cruel, perhaps, to point out one of the main features of his anxiety disorder – a feature that he'd been hesitant enough to explain to me – but I couldn't help myself.

Thankfully – retrospectively – Al didn't seem offended by it in the slightest. "Yes, you are. Stop thinking, Scor. Just go with the flow."

It was on the tip of my tongue to repeat myself but I somehow managed to cut the urge off before it could escape. I could only shake my head instead.

Al didn't seem to need a reply. He shuffled slightly towards me on his seat until he must have been perched on the very edge of his own and tilted his head more fully to catch my eye. I begrudgingly allowed him to, and couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips at his open expression. He could always make me smile.

"You know, Scor, you don't have to have a plan all the time."

 _What_? I blinked, slowly turned towards Al once more. "What?"

Pursing his lips, Al dropping his own gaze to his paper. The small smile he directed towards it held the understanding of experience. Wisdom, I think it's called. Huh. Love him though I did, I'd never seen Al as particularly wise. "I know I might not be exactly the right person to offer advice –"

"Of course you are."

"- but still." He overrode me. "Have you ever thought about just letting it happen? Letting everything fall into place as it will? You never know, it might just sort itself out."

Slowly, I shook my head. "I don't know if I can do that." I truly didn't. I'd never been without a plan before. I didn't know how to _be_ without a plan. "It just seems all so…"

"Unplanned?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, Al. Unplanned."

Al widened his smile once more. "How about just living in the moment a little bit? You love studying, and you love learning, so why don't you just try to enjoy it?"

"I _do_ enjoy it. But how can you just not think about the future and everything that is undetermined?"

"Well, _I_ don't," Al raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "I told you, I'm probably not the best person to offer advice with this. I _always_ worry about what's going to happen. But that doesn't mean I don't try to live in the now."

I cringed internally. Yes, I knew that too. Anxiety. Right. It was often easy to overlook, given how more and more Al simply appeared to be normal. No, 'normal' was a poor term. He seemed to be almost back to how he had been before his illness. I knew he would never be the same – he couldn't be, not after that. Not after such a life-changing experience – but he _seemed_ the same. Even with the support group I accompanied him to as a constant reminder, even with his paleness that hadn't fully shaken, even with the signs of stress and anxiousness that arose every so often and of which I had now compiled into an inventory of expressions and triggers.

I knew that. In the same way that I knew that his words, his suggestion and the positivity of such an approach, would maybe be a possibility. Live in the moment – I'd heard that phrase so often. It was cliché and as such usually overlooked, but that didn't mean it wasn't a good idea.

So I tried. Over the next weeks – months – I tried. And it worked, to a degree. I immersed myself in knowledge gathering. It was difficult to become distracted, to shake off the brooding thoughts and worries, the regrets and mental reprimands of my own stupidity. But for the most part… I thought I enjoyed it. I _thought_ , because I'd never experienced that sort of tentative delight and fascination before, fascination for the knowledge itself rather than for what it could be used for. It was like how I always felt in Potions, except that I'd always considered Potions as being something 'other'. It was strange to feel that same satisfaction, the same delight, for so many of my other subjects as I did for that which I felt truly passionate about.

Al was there to urge me from my melancholy when it descended as often as he could be. He couldn't come back to school, though; he told me that he and his parents had decided to keep him at home and simply home school with the assistance of a tutor. A tutor, and Rose and I. Well, mostly Rose; I'd admit that much.

I still came over every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. Every instance possible, and for as long as I possibly could. Sleeping over on Tuesday became something of a habit, and Weatherwell was surprisingly lenient on the matter. I was grateful for it not only because it meant I could spend more time with Al, to support him in his work and his recovery. I needed him too, though, for his urging and his the support he offered in return, because otherwise I doubt I would have lasted throughout the rest of the year. Not only did Al draw me from my thoughts, but he enticed proactivity on my part. Strange; I'd always seen myself – perhaps a little assumingly – as the more proactive of the two of us.

Al became a career advisor of sorts, evidently drawing upon knowledge he'd deliberately acquired, and presented me with a plethora of possibilities involving Potioneering upon one instance when I'd listlessly pondered aloud what I could do with my knowledge and, as Rhali always called it, my 'passion'. He'd written out a list of colleges and Potions masters that I could study under, too, should I wish to further my studies. When I mentioned – so briefly I forgot I'd said anything – that I regretted I no longer took extra lessons with Yeong because I missed simply experimenting, we spent an entire Sunday morning under Rose's exasperated monitoring brewing in Al's garden with the collection of potions ingredients he'd gathered just for that purpose.

Each little thing, each small, thoughtful detail, made me love him even more. If that was even possible.

"How can you even think about my needs with everything you have to occupy your thoughts with?" I shook my head as he offered me a magazine he'd found – and reportedly read, though I was sceptical from the overly innocent expression on his face – that detailed a number of new and returning fields of Potions experimentation that had surfaced in the past few years. It was called _'Cauldron Craft'_ , and I'd never even heard of the magazines series before.

Al shrugged and flapped a disregarding hand at me. "Of course I'm thinking about you. You help the people you love, right?"

An instant later he flushed, looking mortally embarrassed to have uttered the words, but they just made my heart swell even more. How unforeseen, that I would fall so utterly for someone. Whipped didn't even begin to cover it and I felt absolutely no shame in admitting to it.

I think his efforts worked, though. It was difficult to perceive personal changes, especially with our N.E. approaching and encompassing the horizon, but I noticed because others noticed. Ozzy was the one who first said something aloud; far be it from falling out after Al had taken time from school, I found myself just naturally seeking out my old new friends' company. For it _was_ natural. We no longer visited the Niche – I didn't think any of us could have, not after everything – but we still gathered in the library to study or on warmer days even outside. It was usually me and one or the other of them, though occasion found us all together every so often. Even with Rose from time to time, though she tended to prefer to study with her own friends.

Yes, even Rhali chose to study with me. I was honestly still of half a mind most of the time about whether she actually liked me or not given that when she appeared beside me in the library for the first time and dumped her books and then herself at my table, she glared hard enough to puncture me with her projected daggers when I spared her a questioning glance. We didn't speak about it, though, and I never asked her for clarification of our relationship.

It was Ozzy who offered me the advice I didn't realise I needed. Somehow, Rhali had come up in the brief conversations we shared during our mutual study time – Ozzy and I had never been particularly comfortable with one another, not after Christmas, but the stilted awkwardness had eased a little with time. Ozzy had smirked at me when I pondered why Rhali would feel the need to spend time with me if she disliked me so much.

"Perhaps she thinks she has to keep a watch out for me when Al isn't here?" I suggested.

Ozzy snorted. "Yeah, I can definitely see her doing that. I don't doubt Rhali keeps Al updated on your every move. But no, she doesn't hate you. No entirely, anyway."

I paused in my writing to glance at Ozzy sidelong. I couldn't tell if he was teasing me or not. "And you know that how?"

Ozzy wasn't studying. He was in the doodling stage of writing his essay which was both a brief respite and something of a procrastination technique I'd come to realise he frequently utilised. It looked to be a small goblin of sorts that he was drawing this time but I couldn't be sure. He too lacked Al's sketching skills. He smirked again at my question, however.

"Well, obviously it's because she did exactly the same thing to me."

I felt my eyebrows rise incredulously. "What, she hated you?"

"She _seemed_ like she hated me, yeah," Ozzy nodded, dotting a pronounced wart on the goblin's nose. "But that's just Rhali's way. She's testing the waters to hash out her boundaries with you."

I shook my head. "I don't think that's the case, Ozzy. She's been like this for months. Since I first begun spending time with you all she's hardly changed."

Ozzy shrugged indifferently. "You know she didn't actually directly speak to me until we were in second year."

"What?" I stuttered an incredulous laugh. "How does that even work?"

Ozzy grinned widely. "She just mostly ignored me. We were more forced comrades in our friendship with Al. I don't know why, but she took to him immediately. _He_ never had the probation period."

"Perhaps people in general just tend to like him?" I suggested, my mind turning more fully towards what occupied a permanent seat in my thoughts once more. It was more unusual to find myself not thinking of Al, actually.

Whipped. Yes, I was very whipped. In love I think they call it.

"They do at that," Ozzy agreed, leaning back from his goblin slightly to peer at it critically. "He'd probably have tons of friends if he just let himself."

"I'm not arguing with you on that one," I murmured. We remained in pondering silence for a moment before, with a shake of my head, I turned back to my essay. Call it the power of positive suggestion, but Ozzy actually followed suit.

Perhaps one of the most profound change not of my own making, however, truly manifested in an entirely different way.

My mail stopped coming.

Yes, that might have sounded peculiar when taken out of context, but to my own situation it was very, very relevant. And very relieving. I'd come to dread the arrival of the morning post for the unavoidable deliveries it entailed. Almost every day since I'd returned to Hogwarts from the Christmas break I'd received at least one from some person I barely knew, if I knew them at all. All of the letters followed a form and template, or one of several, and I'd grown so familiar with them that they hardly needed reading anymore.

Suddenly, they stopped. Two days after I visited my father the Daily Prophet spewed forth a new article: MALFOY SCION ABANDONS FATHER'S COMPANY: DISINHERITED OR TEEN REBELLION?

I didn't read the article. I didn't have to and certainly didn't want to. Since the last major fiasco with Al, and those following on the subject with increasingly ridiculous speculations, I was informally protesting by ignoring the very existence of the pathetic excuse for a news provider. I was more likely forcing myself into blissful ignorance, and it just as likely wouldn't last for long because, despite the trash, there were occasional plots of gold hidden amidst the rubble. Still, I strove to maintain my resolution for as long as feasibly possible. It was only by chance that I caught the headline at all as I walked behind a fellow Ravenclaw buried beneath black and white print.

Well, even if I hadn't seen it I would have suspected something was afoot. It was a little difficult to ignore the sidelong glances and speculative whispering. Honestly, I wept for some members of our generation; their stupidity was mind-boggling.

But in spite of the unwanted attention, apparently it gifted me with the reprieve from my owlish assaulters. The very next day not a single letter arrived. Nor the day after. Nor the day after that. Following a trio of almost identical missives from far-flung nobles and high class family heads, it was starkly unhinging to receive simply _nothing_.

It took me almost half a week to realise I liked the feeling it unearthed.

When a letter did finally arrive, I was almost more surprised to see it than when they'd stopped. Even more so when I recognised it as the mighty and self-important eagle owl of my father's. The beast landed with more grace and precision than should have been possible for such a large creature and put the stumbling efforts of those around him to shame. It glared at me with molten orange eyes that appeared nearly red and disappeared in a flurry of feathers the moment I relieved it of its letter.

It was vellum. That more than the cursive script etched across the front in rust-coloured ink told me who it was from. I sat for a long time at breakfast, my housemates arriving and departing around me and the babble of chatter easing as they gradually retreated to class. The bell chimed distantly before I'd broken the seal and I had to hasten to my feet and start in the direction of Defence Against the Dark Arts or risk being late.

I couldn't wait, though. In uncharacteristic haste and slovenly manner, I abruptly felt the need to _know_ what my father had said and ripped the letter open. My steps slowed as I scanned the words, heartbeat throbbing in my temples and blinking rapidly to clear their fuzziness.

I didn't know what I'd expected. Anger? Cold disapproval? Disdain? Would Father disown me as the papers had suspected he already had? I had certainly not expected the short, simple words that were relayed.

_Scorpius,_

_I write to you after extensive contemplation. Have it known, my son, that I am disappointed in you. Disappointed not because you have chosen a different path than that I had always assumed you would follow, but because you have felt the need to hide your true desires from me for so long._

_Yes, I am angered. I am angered that you have waited until now to tell me because, as you know, I have long been establishing a place for you at LeFay Connected. My business associates that have already expressed their disapproval of your placement will be rubbing their hands together in glee and silently mocking me. I do not favour being on the tail end of such mockery, Scorpius. I want you to be aware of the fact that these are the consequences of your actions._

_However, I do not entirely disapprove of your decision. Never think that. And if you for an instant consider that disownment would be a form of punishment I would resort to as the trolls that write that pathetic excuse for a paper presume, then I shall perhaps even consider doing so myself. I should hope you do not think so little of me. You are my son, and following a career and future that you have chosen for yourself will never make me think otherwise. It will perhaps interest you to know that Potioneering was a love of my in my younger years; had I my time over again, perhaps I would pursue it myself._

_Have it known, however, that even with this decision of yours, I will expect no less of you than your absolute best in your N.E. . A simple matter of changing your direction is no excuse for laxness. I will not have a member of my family follow the path of a hapless NEET – I believe that is the term used for such people these days?_

_Should you feel the need to converse with me further upon the subject of your pursuit of Potioneering, or in any other direction, do so promptly. With the parchment I sent you, if you will. I won't forgive hesitancy for cowardice on your part. I am angered, Scorpius, but I am still your father._

And just like that the letter was finished. No regards or words of love were included because they weren't needed. Father had never been one to express his affections openly anyway. What he _had_ said was far more profound for me.

I didn't realise I'd stopped walking until I'd read the letter once over for the third time. When I eventually did hasten back along the path towards Killian's classroom, I would not say that I bounced in my step but it was surely a near thing. Perhaps it was a good that I was a little late; at least there was no one around to see.

* * *

  _~Albus~_

I wasn't saying that I was ever all that good a student; I'd never been anything exceptional and 'average' was a pretty perfect word to describe my schooling abilities. Perhaps it was all those years of study guilt piling up on me, or the combined forces of Scor and Rose, but for whatever reason, in my final months of seventh year I spent more time with my head bowed over textbooks than I had my entire educational experience.

I didn't regret that. I didn't think it was a _bad_ thing necessarily, only that it was very uncharacteristic of me. Very. I suppose dScor was probably rubbing off on me a little bit. There was something about watching someone study so feverishly – someone who so obviously didn't need to do so with such intensity – that sort of compelled onlookers to act similarly. I'd experienced it before, and I knew that even Rhali and Ozzy had felt the powerful effects of Scor's particular brand of magic, but such knowledge didn't make it any less effective.

I didn't return to school to finish the year. Not even after my suspension was lifted and the Deputy Headmistress herself visited to inform me of the new rules and guidelines that would be instilled 'should I wish to return I would be allowed to under scrutiny'. I felt like a criminal.

Or wait, maybe I sort of was. Wow. I'd never thought of it like that before.

Mum, Dad and I had discussed it at length, though. Over the weeks of my physical recovery, I'd spent pretty much my entire time at home; at least 'recovering' was the word Mum used for it, but I wasn't actively doing anything and I thought if I took any more cat naps throughout the day they I would literally turn into a cat. I was still tired a lot of the time, but I suspected that constant weariness was lessening slightly. I still looked like a bloody Inferi and not only when I woke up in the mornings in my zombie semblance; the Healers told me at one of my many check-ups at St. Mungo's that it was more than likely I would stay as pale as a cave-worm for the rest of my life.

Oh, the joy.

Mum had taken time off work. It was touch and go whether it would be her or Dad that asked for leave, and oddly enough it sounded to my ears as I overheard them conversing in low, strained voices late into the night, as though they actually wanted the time off. Or at least the time at home. There wasn't even anything begrudging in their tones, which I found both surprising and pathetically touching. Yeah, I'd developed something of a guilt complex over what happened – I knew this mostly because everyone had told me very deliberately – and it didn't look like it would be abating any time soon. I believed it is an entirely warranted feeling, though, considering the circumstances, and regardless of what Mum said on the matter concerning my supposed innocence.

And yet Mum and Dad didn't sound resentful. When Mum sat down to breakfast with me the following Monday morning with a smile, I'd known something was up and that it probably had to do with the absence of low, heartfelt discussions that reverberated in muffled tones through the walls at night. They'd stopped two nights before and I was waiting for the verdict.

She waited until I'd taken my Maintenance Potion – the effects are still strong, but I like to think it's easing slightly from its debilitating inducement. I could actually respond when someone said something to me now, though embarrassingly enough speech was still beyond me. But even with such effects, was glad for the brew. It did help with my tendency to freak out, and I though that was probably the reason Mum waited until after I'd drunk it.

"Al, I wanted to talk to you about school."

I paused in the act of taking a sip of juice – the potion still tasted like crap, no matter what it was mixed with – and turned slowly towards her. Behind me, I heard the tell tale shuffle of Dad in the kitchen as he went about pouring himself a cup of tea.

I slowly lowered my glass down to the table. "What about it?"

Mum folded her hands on the table in front of her, leaning forward slightly in her seat. Dad's shuffling drew closer and I didn't need to glance towards him to know he was standing behind me. "Your dad and I have been talking and we think it might be best if you stay at home for the rest of the term."

It was indeed a good thing that I'd taken my medication. I felt an upwelling of gut-swirling nausea attempt to disgorge my half-eaten breakfast before it was clamped down again. I'd considered such a possibility; of course I had, even speculated it aloud. But the reality of it made me feel physically unwell. "I can't… I can't do that."

"It's alright, Al." Dad placed a hand on my shoulder and I raised my gaze towards him instead. His face was sympathetic, eyes crinkling sadly behind his glasses. "We've had a talk to some of the professors and I've even contacted a friend of mine with the Department of Education. You're able to finish your seventh year at home if you have extenuating circumstances."

A disgruntled voice in the back of my head grumbled at the fact that my parents had gone behind my back without even consulting me first. A selfish and ungrateful part, I had to accuse it as being, because the larger part of me suspected they were right. That maybe it would be better for me to finish of the school year at home, not only with the support of my family but away from the questioning eyes of both the public and my fellow students. I didn't know how much had been said on the matter and held hopes that I'd just slipped into unobtrusiveness once more, but they weren't high hopes. Besides that, I was a little nervous to face anyone from Hogwarts again. Or anyone from the entire Wizarding world, actually.

So I slowly nodded my head, eyes dropping from my dad's to fix on the half-full glass of juice. I swallowed down the tightness in my throat and forced to quell the roiling in my stomach. "Yeah, that… might be best."

From the ensuing silence that followed, I knew my answer wasn't what my parents had anticipated. I could almost feel the startled glances Mum and Dad exchanged over my head. Mum finally spoke into the lull. "We aren't suggesting this to be cruel, Al –"

"I know." I nodded jerkily and lifted my eyes towards hers, offering a feeble smile. I don't think even feeble was an apt description of my attempt. "I don't think I'm well enough to go back. Or… maybe – maybe I'm just too scared to."

I offered a slightly strangled laugh that held not an ounce of amusement. It obviously didn't fool either of them, for mm reached across the table to pat my hand and Dad's grasp on my shoulder squeezed slightly in an attempt at comfort. I shrugged slightly beneath his fingers in acknowledgement.

"Your mum's decided to take some time off work for the next couple of months," he informed me. "Just until you can get your sea legs back."

"I don't need to be babysat," I said. I hoped I didn't sound as petulant because I didn't truly feel that way.

"We know you don't," Mum replied with an expression that didn't quite hide the fact that she felt otherwise. "Its just what Healer Mendez suggested. People who have been through your, ah… illness, or similar, need someone with them in their recovery period."

"To make sure I don't act like an idiot and do it all again?"

"No one's calling you an idiot, Al," Dad muttered, and he sounded a little angry at the suggestion. I immediately felt guilty for that too, and mumbled a faint "sorry" that was instantly brushed aside.

"It will only be for a little while," Mum continued. "Just until school finishes up. I doubt I'd be able to take off much more time than that anyway."

"Yeah, well, you can hardly claim the title of manager if you don't really manage," I pointed out, which drew a smile from her.

"Very true." Her smile faded as she patted my hand once more. "It's just going to be the two of us for a little while, sweetie – well, us and James; he seems to have gotten it in his head that he'll be over here every other day – so we may as well make the most of it, yes?"

I nodded and didn't move to avoid her as she slid around the table to wrap me in a hug. Mum and I had always been close – a 'Mummy's boy' James used to tease me as being in our childhood, although he said it with a bit more wistful affection nowadays – and I'd always stoically endured Dad's own awkward attempts. Good with physical displays of affection my dad was not. Still, I appreciated his sentiment.

So when Weatherwell came to inform me of my option to return to school, I respectfully declined. She didn't seem surprised, so I assumed she'd gotten wind of what my parents and I were considering. Probably from Neville, I guessed. And over the course of the following months, I settled myself into a routine.

I got a tutor. He was a guy from the year above James and was an amiable enough fellow. Benji Haroldson was his name, and I thought I actually remembered him from when he was at school; he was a Hufflepuff too I was pretty sure.

Benji was wholly a mop of mousy blond hair, a small but constant and very genuine smile and a strange way of speaking that was sort of undulating. It had me staring at him dubiously on several instances when he spoke for the first day he came around – his voice sounded like it descended a slide, only to catch itself and jump back up at the end of each sentence. I got used to it pretty soon, though, and our transition towards reasonably comfortable passed easily enough. I put it down to his own fondness for Herbology, which was undoubtedly why Dad had asked him in the first place.

Rose seemed a bit affronted at first that her position as primary mentor was being usurped, but she got over it quickly enough when she met Benji. I thought she seemed a bit taken with the guy, actually. It was a good thing, too, because I didn't much fancy the idea of having to choose between favouring my cousin and the weirdly-spoken twenty-year old who liked to talk to me about plants. He was a pretty solid bloke, actually; I doubted anyone would have found much to object to about him. I liked him even more because he didn't push for backbreaking studying regimes. That and because he really actually helped me. I knew I'd been falling behind a bit simply because I didn't have the structure and direction of a teacher. Benji remedied that.

But there was one extra element about Benji's approach that I appreciated more than anything else. He liked plants a lot, if not quite to the degree that I did. But even so, even lacking in quite the same enthusiasm, he recognised my passion and worked with it. I thought Mum was a bit dubious as to the sheer amount of time we spent on Herbology, with every hour of other subjects we'd spend another solely discussing plants, but she let it slide when I supplied evidence of my adequate homework completion. She didn't even object when we started up a little project of our own; quite the contrary, actually. When Benji and I first started cultivating a little garden out the back of Godric's Hollow, within a week Mum was on her knees and digging in the dirt alongside us.

Even James – who had kept to his word to spend as much time at home as possible, despite the fact that we quickly descended to the laid-back and often disregarding attitude of brothers within a week – chipped in to help. Or at least he did until I turfed him out of my growing sanctuary. He had about as much of a green thumb as a coal mine and I suspected was solely responsible for squashing the first of the Gardengem sprouts. He withdrew to sit on the back veranda or soar his broom around lazily overhead, calling out very unhelpful suggestions like "you should grow an apple tree so I can eat them" or "put in a Devil's Snare; it'll be a bout of nostalgia for Dad". The loveable idiot.

I'd attempted over the years to start such a garden – exotics, natives, edible herbs, the whole kit and caboodle – but my attempts had always fallen through when the plants became neglected upon my return to school. It wasn't really Mum or Dad's fault. They shouldn't have to be responsible for them and usually just forgot to keep an eye on things when I was away.

Now, though, in what Benji called 'a brief break from rigorous studies', I was able to work on the little crop and actually maintain it. It was the perfect time of year for it, with spring just creeping into an early summer, and the three of us made use of the sunshine. Within weeks, the soil had been churned, seeds planted and sprouts and saplings translocated, and the beginnings of my own little paradise sprung to life.

From Dittany to Flutterby Bush, Puffapod and Leaping Toadstools, the backyard of our house became a Garden of Eden for magical plants, many offered by Neville when he heard of and expressed delight for the entire endeavour. Not only that, though, but I suggested the addition of a number of other useful and beautiful – or simply interesting – leafy residents. Ground Ivy that was still used to cure persistent coughs and fevers. A little bit of primrose because it's pretty. Foxglove – even though Mum worried about its potentially poisonous properties – and rosemary. Chamomile for the tea that Lily likes, and a whole sea of vivid geraniums interspersed with dill, clover, violets and silverleaf. Even a good hunk of nettle to make some medicinal soups. Mum also suggested spearmint, but I vehemently expressed my dissention over the thought; I suspected I'd been scarred from anything even vaguely minty these days. Toothpaste almost made me puke.

None of it would have naturally grown together of course. But to me, unnatural as it was, I revelled in the simple art of urging the growth of that which I adored. For the most part, whether it was my care or some element of unseen magic involved, they flourished.

Scor said it was beautiful. Not at first, of course – it looked kind of flat, brown and boring before anything actually sprouted and flowered – but it didn't take long for the blossoms and greenery to splatter across the yard like water colours streaking canvas. _I_ thought it was beautiful, but I didn't expect to hear that coming from him. He'd always appreciated plants, at first from the perspective of their usefulness in Potions and later because he said he liked that I liked them, whatever that meant. I'd never really anticipated that he would look upon them and genuinely consider them beautiful, but his sincerity was clear upon his face. He wasn't just saying it for my sake.

Scor – often accompanied by Rhali, Ozzy, Rose and Lily – visited home at least every other day. I never could quite manage to say how much I appreciated that. Even with their own concerns regarding school, with Scor's own situation with his father of which I'd blessedly managed to help him through with the struggle of pulling unyielding teeth, they always came. We actually did study, strange as that may seem considering that Rhali, Ozzy and I were all primary members of our makeshift classes. Yes, we did actually study, although I thought the lesson we all learned the most from it all was how little Rhali and Rose liked each other and how lacking in artistic flair Ozzy's doodles are.

Scor visited on Tuesdays and Thursdays by himself, though, as well as accompanying me to Sahra's support group. After the first few times, I felt the need to tell him that he didn't have to come – I didn't want him to feel like he _had_ to, after all.

Scor just stared at me. His face was blank, completely expressionless, and he just stared. He didn't even blink.

I fidgeted under his gaze, shifting in my seat so that it scraped slightly on the veranda's floorboards. "What?"

Very slowly, Scor leant towards me so that he was nearly more in my chair than his own. "Al. Do you not want me to come with you?"

I bit back a snort. Did I not –? Of _course_ I wanted him to come. Maybe I'd been nervous about it at first, but the fact that Scor accompanied me was one of the main reasons I returned for that second meeting at all. He'd bent the truth a little regarding our circumstances, yes, and the support group likely assumed that he had as much of a problem as I did. Or as much of a problem as any witch or wizard could get from drugs as there was a pretty easy and widely used Anti-Addiction Charm that could be cast upon anything bought or self-produced that everyone but the most stupid would use.

I shook my head, dropping my gaze. "No, it's not that I don't want you to come. It's just that I figure you've got more than enough on your plate…"

I trailed off, my thoughts turning towards Scor's cyclical melancholy that had only just begun to lift after weeks of brooding. I could entirely understand why he was veering towards a slight depression; Scor had always been one to take his time to consider a decision, and the impulsiveness of his actions with his dad were likely weighing heavily upon his shoulders. He didn't say as much – I'd basically had to trick the admission out of him – but I suspected he was on the verge of regretting his words to his dad if he didn't already. He was getting a bit better, coming to terms with it a little, and I thought he'd probably be happy that he made the decision when the regret faded a little. I'd never been one to push him into doing anything when he felt absolutely committed to following another direction, but I knew he was passionate about Potions and that in general I assumed life would be a lot for anyone to work in a field they thoroughly enjoyed. But I knew Scor had to come to that realisation for himself. I could only help him where possible, offer support my often threadbare support, and remain as positive about the entire situation as humanely possible.

And bake. We'd baked a lot of muffins over the last few weeks. Scor certainly had a knack for it, though his measuring was still a little bit obsessively precise.

I felt sort of guilty that Scor was spending time coming to a support group that he didn't need to attend when he could be studying. I knew he was actually falling into the pleasure of studying for the love of it – or reading up on Potions – because, hell, he should know about as much about it as possible if he's going to work in the field, right? He could even spend his time baking since he seemed to find it somewhat therapeutic. But no; instead he spent a solid two hours with me every support group afternoon discussing how to handle compulsive behaviours, how to deal with anxiety and depression, and how to learn to use and rely upon a support network to ensure that the road to recovery would remain firmly underfoot.

"Albus."

The use of my full name drew my full attention back to Scor. I blinked at him in surprise. I couldn't remember the last time he'd called me anything but Al. The note of exasperated reprimand in his voice told me where he'd gotten the notion from, though. It was exactly the same tone Mum had spoken to me last Tuesday when I'd forgotten to tell her that Scor loathed anything with seafood in it with a passion – I don't know why, he just did. Suffice it to say that her curried fish stew was wasted on him, despite the fact that he made a valiant attempt at not throwing it up all over the dinner table. Even the slightly hooded cast to his expression mirrored Mum's.

"Are you by any chance thinking I shouldn't come because I have something better to be doing?"

Forcing my own exasperated and definitely not guiltily cringing expression onto my face, I folded my arms across my chest and leant back in my chair. "Well, don't you?"

Scor stared at me with a flat expression for a moment longer. Then he sighed and shifted further in his seat until he was close enough to wrap an arm around my shoulders and draw me into him. He pressed a kiss to the side of my forehead in that way that he did – a way I absolutely loved but would never openly admit because that was just a little pathetic – then swept his lips to my ear. "You know, I don't think there could be anything more important to me than coming with you. And unless you truly don't want me to come then I fully intent to tag along to every single one of those groups."

I was glad he didn't turn from the side of my head, because had he done so he surely would have noticed the dopey, foolish smile threatening to spread across my face.

The support groups were actually great. After the first few sessions – okay, more than a few – where I had a distinct difficulty speaking, they smoothed out a little. But even before that I found them beneficial; simply the idea that I wasn't alone in my situation was oddly comforting. And the atmosphere… it was weird, yet fantastically so. Everyone, parents, supporter and recovering alike, were all relaxed and largely comfortable with one another. They were actually really friendly.

We kept it strictly anonymous and contained to the group session. Or at least that was the intention. Apparently some of the other young people – Jules and the boy who always sat next to her, Sean – had met one another at Sahra's groups and had become fast friends. Possibly more than friends, I suspected, but that's just simple speculation. Yet they weren't the only ones that appeared solid friends with one another; everyone spoke on a companionable level and despite the supposed anonymity were largely open towards one another.

Which was how I came to realise that I actually recognised a few of them.

Wizarding Britain wasn't all that large. More than that, just about every kid in the UK undergoes their formal education at Hogwarts. Well, at Hogwarts or Mennymex in southern Ireland, but that's barely more than a home study educational system that meets on a non-compulsory basis three times a week. It wasn't really even a school, despite being acknowledged as such. So, truth be told, I should have expected to meet at least some fellow students.

Most of them were older than me, so those that I did recognise had already graduated. Paolo had been a Slytherin three years ago, and Francesca a Ravenclaw. The squat, quiet boy, Jimmy – whose resemblance to James ended with the name – graduated from Gryffindor two years ago, and Hart was a Hufflepuff that I vaguely remembered as being about five years older than me. Everyone else that was older were largely unrecognisable save for the occasional flash of distant memory that slipped through my fingers when I tried to grasp it. As for the three who were younger… well, I didn't recognise the other boy, Tyler, that was about my age, and sixteen year old Grayson was one of those from Mennymex. The girl, though, the one I'd recognised as being twitchy and silent in my first session, I vaguely recalled. Evie, her name was, and she looked and acted like a rabbit amidst a pack of wolves.

Far be it from that acknowledgment and recognition driving a wedge between myself and my fellows, I actually found it sort of soothing. More so for the fact that they obviously all saw it in me too, and that they didn't say anything or seem deterred by that recognition was comforting. It made my own situation, with the knock-on fame of my dad's renown, that much less of an issue.

Sahra was fantastic. That easy-going nature of hers, the gentle familiarity and coaxing but not pressuring to speak and be included, was a very definite point in her favour. Jazber was like her little prodigy and sat in on the sessions more often than not; he mostly just listened, but when he spoke up it was with the same gentle kindness of Sahra, who it turned out was actually his aunt. They bounced off each other quite well, actually. It made me wonder how long they'd been running the support group for together.

Yes, I learned a lot. I learnt that it was okay to be anxious as long as I strove not to let it consume me. I learnt that even if it did overwhelm me at times that it was okay, that I hadn't failed and that it just meant I had to pick myself up and try again next time. I learnt coping mechanisms other than the simple act of concentrating on my breathing, and was encouraged to voice my difficulties to those I trusted and who could offer me support.

Because those chosen few, the blessed family and friends who stood by me, they were the ones who would truly aid my recovery.

I did feel like I was recovering. There was no active change, not that I could deduce, but I felt better. When the unnerving effects of the Maintenance Draught became familiar, when my tendency to drop out of conversations with a yawn and drooping eyes faded, I felt… better. Yes, there was still an urge to use Harproot; not a compulsive urge, but sometimes, when the muffled feelings of stress and nervousness lingered enduringly and exhaustingly, I longed for the musky scent that would wash it all away. It just seemed so much easier than trying to battle it myself, to gain a hold of it.

But I didn't. Not only because I couldn't – I didn't even have what remained of my Harproot in my possession and despite Scor's confession, his beautiful, wonderful revelation, I didn't have access to it – but because I wouldn't. Even in the midst of my regretful pondering, the memory of the years prior when I'd simply plucked a leaf from the mottled plant and sparked it alight with Icefyre, I wouldn't start it again. I wouldn't.

I was getting better. Or I would get better. That much I knew. Even if it took me years. I'd learned a hard lesson from my foolish mistake, even though mistake it was and that it used a drug that wasn't mine – not to mention involving the fool-hardy mixing of drugs of unknown properties. I wouldn't be doing so again. I couldn't. I couldn't do that to my family, to my friends. To Scor.

So I worked through it.

And when the final weeks of the year drifted around the corner, when the looming, ominous presence of the N.E.W.T exams scaled the horizon, I felt prepared. Nervous, certainly, and to an almost debilitating degree, but I was ready.

Or at least as ready as I would ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who commented! I received some really lovely words and I'd just like to say how much I appreciated them. Thank you xx


	22. The Culmination of My Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, this is the second last - but kind of the last, I guess - chapter for this series. I'm posting the next chapter up straight after it, though so enjoy!

The school of Hogwarts stood proud and regal, perched upon the side of the Black Lake. Walls that had stood the tests of time endured still, their impressive presence firm and stoic in the early morning light of mid-summer. Though it was only early in the day, the grounds were alive with movement.

House elves rushed across the perfectly mown lawns, erecting brightly coloured marquees and snapping long, wide tables into existence before shrouding them in draping lengths of tablecloth. Flags on flag posts fluttered in an idling breeze and colourful ribbons dangled from every static item of furniture. Already a melody of nostalgic and whimsical tunes were playing from an ambient source, rippling music across the grounds, spreading and rebounding off the onlooking walls of the Hogwarts castle.

To the side of the marquees in a sunlit pool of green, dozens of rows of hard-backed chairs faced a low stage boasting a podium and curtained backdrop depicting the words 'Class of 2023' hung in sparkling letters suspended ten feet tall.

It was not yet eight o'clock, yet graduation day had become a cause for early mornings and celebrations. It was perhaps a good thing that the school year had not yet begun and that the previous year had ended, for the noise of preparation echoing around the desolate grounds would surely have awoken every inhabitant.

Headmaster Tyril had held firm in his imagined idea of how the seventh year students were supposed to be sent off. Prior to his appointment at Hogwarts, the send off had been conducted in a low-key and muted setting at the Labough Wizarding Cathedral on the outskirts of Edinburgh. It was hardly worthy of the grandiose name, and Tyril believed that something _more_ should be afforded to the departing students. They had, after all, been residents of the school for nearly half of their lives.

And even if nearly the exact same ceremony would be conducted the following year, and the year after that, it didn't mean that Tyril would ensure anything less for those current leavers. For customary as their departure may be, it was certainly special.

Their final day on the grounds of Hogwarts should be special too.

* * *

_~Scorpius~_

I'd never been one much for extravagance.

Growing up in a lifestyle of refined grandeur rather than vibrancy and blatant enthusiasm had left me sceptical of outlandish displays of party-like excitement. Fireworks had never particularly appealed to me, nor had I ever felt much inclined to partake in raucous partying. Loud music and the overuse of bright, clashing colours had always seemed a little excessive to me. I had, in my entire eighteen years of life, done my utmost to avoid becoming embroiled in such situations.

For Graduation Day, however, I would make an exception. The explosive crackles of fireworks that routinely sprung to life overhead were quite impressive, I'd admit, in that they were able to adequately and visibly spout in broad daylight more than anything else. The music was remarkably tasteful – not any of that pop culture crashing and blaring that most of my peers classified as music – and was hushed enough that the raising of voices was not required to hold a conversation. And the colours? Well, a mish-mash of those of all four houses was bound to be offensive to the cultured eye. I'd expected that. If anything, however, I feel that the house elves did a fair job n tailoring and moderating the mix of reds, blues, greens and yellows to something less than physically painful to behold.

I knew it was indulgent of me, but I am grateful that the Graduation Ceremony was less averse than it very well could have been.

Al and I had come together to Hogwarts, Apparating into Hogsmeade at half-past ten on the dot to make our way to the castle. Rhali and then Ozzy cracked into existence barely moments after us and we four joined the sparse throng of ex-students, parents and friends trickling into the distance. I exchanged nods with those that I hadn't seen since school had let out, a smile with a few who were slightly more agreeable – Winona, for one, and Rose – but the four of us largely kept to ourselves for the trek.

And after, too. For despite the camaraderie established from mutual survival of our N.E. , Al, Ozzy, Rhali and I were outsiders to our year. Perhaps other didn't see us so distinctly, but I knew for sure we all felt it.

Ever since the incident with Al, things had been different. It wasn't so much that we actively avoided the rest of our cohort. No, there was no _active_ avoidance involved; it simply happened. I couldn't help but blame my peers to some degree, almost as much as I did the _Daily Prophet_ , and the fact that none had tattled on what had actually happened did only a little to redeem them in my eyes. I had committed myself to my studies, conducting the bare minimum of social niceties, and that was that. I had no need for further interaction, as it wasn't beneficial to me. By mid-year our schooling would be over and I wouldn't ever have much cause to see most of my year mates ever again.

More than that, I didn't have to be particularly nice to them, either. The character I'd once assumed, of the prodigal son shaping himself into the respectable employee of the future, was gone. Over the weeks following my decision, my confrontation with Father, that much had become clear to me. Who I was had disappeared and I felt myself peeled raw and bare while simultaneously wrapped comfortably in the dressings of the 'new me'.

That 'me' was still trying to figure out whom exactly he was. I supposed only time would tell.

My N.E. had gone as well as I could have realistically hoped. I would never be able to claim that I was happy with them, for there would always be more that I could have done, moments of regret that I hadn't studied just a little bit harder, but I was content. Almost satisfied. It helped in some ways that Rose was of a similar mind; I'd discovered that what Ozzy called 'over-achievers' such as ourselves were prone to perfectionism and the constant need to improve our efforts and ourselves. It took a huge force of will to stop myself from saying that perhaps a little more 'over-achieving' in some wouldn't go astray. It would have been cruel to say as much to Ozzy, even if he would have simply smirked and laughed off my words.

I hadn't received my marks back yet. They would come soon. And even with this almost-satisfaction, I felt a constant nervousness, anticipation settling within me that renewed every morning. I doubted it would go away entirely until I received that fateful letter by owl.

That same nervousness was seen in the eyes of every graduate I passed as I stepped onto Hogwart's grounds. For the last time, I realised, and a touch of unexpectedly wistful sadness welled within me briefly. Everything around me would soon become simply a memory; the looming grey walls of the castle, the broad, open grasses of the grounds, the distant, tranquil surface of the Black Lake and the shadowed depths of the Forbidden Forest. I would never again sit in Yeong's classes and marvel over the sheer wealth of knowledge he hid beneath his soft-spoken words, never feel the hidden approval of Weatherwell as I mastered another transfiguration spell, never flick through the pages of my textbook in History as I pondered over the sense that kept Binns as the teacher of that class.

That, too, was saddening.

Sadness, however, was very obviously the last feeling the house elves – and likely Tyril, for he was always one to become involved in festivities – sought to induce with the outfitting for the Graduation Ceremony. Not only was every attendant dressed in a smile as wide as a Cheshire cat's, but the general atmosphere of joviality radiated about the marquee-dressed outdoors. And that was even before the food and the good-humour that accompanied it even arrived.

The ceremony itself was nothing particularly formal. All of us ex-seventh year students, dressed for the last time in our school robes and the archaic pointed hats worn for academic celebrations, seated ourselves as a group in the audience. Before a sea of beaming parents and snapping cameras, Tyril gave what sounded very much like a well-learned and likely reused speech about the excellence of us students of the previous year. Despite the obvious lack of revision to his words, I felt a little proud by the talk of 'excellence' and 'esteemed students' and 'perfect role models'. There was nothing lacking in the face-crinkling smile Tyril turned upon our group of waiting graduates that listened attentively from the front row of seats.

We each took our turns to cross the stage, pause at the podium to receive the formal yet very tokenistic scroll of 'Hogwarts Graduate'. It meant nothing, of course, save that we had completed seven years of study; the results for the N.E. were by no means guaranteed by the sentiment. Still, I felt that same pride well within me as I strode across the stage myself to the request of 'Scorpius Malfoy' and grasped Tyril's hand, shaking it firmly and receiving one of his crinkled smiles directly for myself. I'd never had much to do with the headmaster, considering him nothing much more than a figurehead. I still perceived Weatherwell as the brains behind the staff body; the witch herself watched with a surprisingly soft expression on her usually stern face from the opposite side of the stage. But even so, a modicum of affection for Tyril arose within me as our hands clasped.

After that, it was a simple matter of celebration. The multitudinous cracks of appearing house elves preceded the arrival of an array of snacks and party foods to rival that offered at Hogwarts' feast nights. The long, rectangular tables shaded by marquees and draped in house colours groaned under plates piled high, beneath platters and dishes, tea cups and steaming teapots, the smell of warm bread and freshly baked biscuits – both scents I had personally become quite familiar with of late – that rose into the air and drew gurgling grumbles from every belly.

It didn't take long before everyone, ex-students, families and professors alike, had fallen upon the offerings and retreated into their own seated groups, chattering animatedly.

I found a seat with Al, Rhali and Ozzy at a table that perfectly only seated about half a dozen. Rhali scavenged a whole three-tiered cake stand of muffins and cupcakes that she withheld from the rest of us for a moment before with exaggerated long-suffering had allotted us 'the ugliest ones' of the arrangement. Ozzy _Accio_ ed a floral teapot and matching cups and saucers and we settled ourselves to munching our way through a very sugary lunch with the exclusiveness that we usually found ourselves in.

It was actually remarkably comfortable. It was almost as though the rest of the world didn't exist. We could have been at Al's house in Godric's Hollow for all the difference it truly was.

"Okay, which house-elf thought it was a good idea to mix savoury muffins with the sweet ones," Ozzy muttered, placing one such muffin with a bite taken from the side back onto the platter.

"Ew, Ozzy, don't put it back on the plate," Rhali scolded, picking the muffin up once more and tossing it back towards him in a spray of crumbs.

"Hey, don't throw food at me."

"Don't be disgusting them."

"Oh, I'm disgusting? And I suppose sitting there picking the raisins out of your own muffin is entirely acceptable."

"Yes it is, because raisins are disgusting."

I couldn't help but disagree with Rhali on that one. The image of the little pellets scattered across the plate in front of her – and across the Slytherin green tablecloth surrounding it – a little too closely resembled rat droppings for my liking.

Al was similarly disagreeable, but for an apparently different reason. "Rhali, you don't hate raisins."

"Yes, I do." Rhali flicked one from her plate towards him. He dodged it neatly.

"Didn't you eat those cinnamon buns Al and I made last week?" I asked.

Rhali pouted, shooting me a glare. "Yes…"

"Did they have raisins in them?" Ozzy asked with more incredulity than was probably warranted.

"Well, they bloody well weren't chocolate chips," Rhali grumbled.

"Much to Rhali's distress," Al grinned, flashed me a conspiratorial glance that lit up his eyes in that brilliant way his genuine smiles always did. We'd both decided to keep the ingredients entirely secret from Rhali for that very reason. It could hardly be said that we didn't enjoy ourselves with our mutual baking experiences. Perhaps me a little more than Al; I truly had become quite fond of it.

I had to find _some_ thing to do with my time these days since school had finished up. Independent searching for potential careers and future pathways – even before I'd attained my N.E. – was simply too unnerving to do _all_ the time. It was distressing at times, too; I had no idea what I wanted to do with myself, and until I'd received a hardcopy of my results didn't feel comfortable enough to actively approach any masters or companies on the matter.

It was horrible, being left floating adrift with no clear direction in mind. Thank Merlin for Al; he was my anchor through it all, and seemed to have dedicated himself to distracting me from my thoughts. One day it was baking, another day he dragged me out to a nursery to do some scouting for the garden in his backyard, yet another day was spent on our knees in said garden. I wasn't particularly fond of getting my hands dirty – they made gloves expressly to avoid just that sort of problem – but I was becoming familiar with it if nothing else.

That wasn't our only endeavours. Al and I still went to Sahra's support group, and had even met up with the quiet little girl Evie a few times. She was nice enough, and actually had a relatively sound knowledge of Potions for one who'd dropped out of school in fifth year. Alongside that, we took to wandering around London, as much in the Muggle world as the Wizarding one, and just as often as not with Rhali or Ozzy in tow. A day at the Tower of London was followed by one at the Museum for Magical Inventions – which was actually more interesting than it sounded – and a few days later by a visit to Buckingham Palace to engage in the typical tourist exploits of our own city. We took a turn to the Globe Theatre to see a modern rendition of Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ , which I found was very different to the Wizarding interpretation of the same story with significantly less use of Disillusionment Charms and Killing Curses.

We actually ended up taking a trip to Italy to visit Ozzy when he took a couple of weeks holiday with his mother to Rome. I'd never been before, but it was certainly an experience, and one I'd been keen to repeat when I was less prone to distraction and brooding.

I actually felt inclined to perhaps seek some temporary employment simply as a more thorough and productive distraction. Except that, well… brooding I may often find myself, but I was enjoying spending so much time with Al. We basically lived in one another's pockets; when not at his house, we were at mine. I believed that, if Mother could have her way, we would never leave. It was a good thing that Al quite liked her; I hated to think of how awkward things would be if he shrunk from the embraces she'd begun to shower upon him in recent weeks. He took them exceptionally well. I supposed he was probably fairly used to them, what with receiving similar affection from his own mother.

Turning away from my friends, who had begun to flick pieces of muffin at one another and giggling like children half their age, I cast a glance around the seating area. Little clusters of students and parents, or students and teachers or – just as often – teachers and parents, many of whom were ex-peers or students themselves, were seated around their own round tables. Some milled between the clusters, darting over with a call of greeting or flung statement and hastening to a new conversation partner, or perusing the buffet table and heaping laden plates with delectable morsels.

I recognised faces amongst the many, of those other than my fellow students. Some, like Mr Toff and Lady Jacarda, were familiar from my time becoming acquainted with the clients of my father's business. Others – Winona's parents, the Weasleys, a couple with faces such a perfect mash-up of Zachariah's features that they had to be his family – were vaguely familiar themselves. I nodded to a few that made eye contact with me, and even offered another smile to Winona when she happened to glance in my direction.

I caught sight of my parents across the room, too. Mother was, naturally, amidst a group of babbling suck-ups vying for her attention. Attention she was deliberately diverting to another worthy cause in the form of Ginny Potter. Mother was persistent when it came to Ginny; if Al's mother was in a mile radius, it was almost as though my mother could sniff her out and would be magnetically drawn towards her. Ginny, bless her, didn't seem to mind. If anything, I thought she actually seemed to quite like Mother's company; she certainly never shirked it, and just as often as not sought Mother out herself.

I'd actually had a word to my mother about her clinginess to the Potter family, something that no one but me seemed able to perceive. Since Al and I had finished school, she'd gotten worse, if it was possible. Should we happen to mention, upon leaving the Manor, that we were heading over the Godric's Hollow, Mother would inevitably pick herself up and invite herself over.

About a month ago I'd decided to put an end to such behaviour. I still remembered that confrontation so clearly, as though it had only happened that morning, for the mortification it induced within me. Al and I had barely made it halfway towards the door when she intercepted us in the hallway with a small smile and a knowing sparkle in her eyes. She didn't even have to say anything; I'd already known she knew where we were heading.

"Mother," I'd sighed, casting an exasperated glance towards Al. "Do you think perhaps you're being a little intrusive?"

Mother had tilted her head like a curious bird and raised a confused eyebrow. It was blatantly obvious to me that she was being deliberately ignorant. "Intrusive? How so?"

"Firstly, you've never actually asked before heading on over there –"

"Ginny never needs me to ask," Mother had interrupted.

"- and even without that," I'd spoken over her. "You come over _all the time_. Perhaps a little distance would do your relationship some good?" I'd felt like a parent chastising their wayward daughter to steer clear of catastrophic romances, but continued nonetheless. "I'm sure Ginny doesn't need to see you every day."

"Oh, you mean a little distance like that which you and Albus share?" Mother had turned pointedly towards Al, who was being decidedly unhelpful and looked to be struggling against a grin more than anything else.

A flush had threatened to rise in my cheeks, but I'd gotten remarkably good at denying such tell tale reactions over the past months. "Al's and my relationship is somewhat different, I feel."

Mother had pursed her lips, turning her attention back towards me. "Scorpius, I see absolutely no need to be so distant with my future family members. If anything, we'll only be seeing more of one another in the coming years." And after dropping that little bombshell, with only a murmured, "I'll just get my purse," she'd slipped past me and disappeared in an elegant sweep up the stairs.

As it turned out, I was not so in control of my blushing reflex as I'd thought. Future family? Could she be any more blunt? Thankfully, with the sound of Mother's footsteps departing, Al had only fallen into gales of laughter rather than his own embarrassment and, as I'd half expected, horror. He'd thought it was funny – hilarious, apparently – but it was with a moment of satisfaction that I realised he wasn't denying the possibility.

Watching her across the seated and standing heads of the milling crowd, I shook my head at the undivided attention that Mother focused upon Ginny. It was as though the men and women who always fluttered around her, bouncing and prancing about for the attention of Mrs Malfoy, were but dust on the wind.

Well, undivided except for Mrs Weasley, who had similarly become ensnared by my mother's unyielding tentacles. Rose's mother actually seemed to be more enthusiastically participating in the conversation than Ginny was, and Mother was replying with similar if less carefree attentiveness. She likely saw Mrs Weasley as potential family members too; I knew she was a Muggleborn, and had wondered if the old-fashioned prejudices would hold fast with my mother. Apparently, they did not.

Some prejudices did not appear to have died, however. Just to the side of where Mother and her exclusive pair of companions spoke, Father stood with his back half-turned towards the crowd, a cup of tea steaming in his hand and eyes drifting lazily towards Hogwarts. He would have appeared nostalgic and wistful, had it not been for the fact that Mr Potter and Mr Weasley not far away from him were boasting almost identical expressions of detached nostalgia. And, if the very deliberate avoidance of eye contact that was shared between the three of them were any indication, the reason was not terribly difficult to fathom.

No, some rivalries did not die quite so easily with a little time.

"What are you smiling about?"

I glanced towards Al, where he was picking crumbs from his fringe after finally extricating himself from the reserved food fight he'd shared with Ozzy and Rhali. The pair of them had moved on to some sort of dramatic play enactment, adopting pompous impressions of the highborn as they sipped their teas with little finger's splayed ridiculously widely.

I shook my head. "Nothing, just looking at Father."

Al glanced over my shoulder towards the direction I gestured. I idly pried another small dusting of crumbs from his hair; he didn't even seem to notice me doing so. "Oh, you mean our dads?"

I hummed. "And Mr Weasley."

Al rolled his eyes, assuming a smirk. "They're like little kids," he chuckled, very decidedly overlooking his own actions of the past few minutes.

"At least they're not fighting."

"I doubt your dad would be caught dead fighting with anyone in public."

"You'd be surprised," Ozzy broke in, taking a slurping sip from his tea that left Rhali sniggering. "Apparently your dads were quite famous in the day for starting up a duel or fist-fight just about anywhere."

I blinked at Ozzy in surprise. "How do you even know that? My father hardly ever speaks of his school days."

Ozzy shrugged, peering distastefully into the dregs of his cup. "I read."

"You do not," Al interjected.

"Fine, then I listen."

"You don't do much of that either," Rhali added.

"Why is it so hard to consider that I know things?" Ozzy glanced exasperatedly between the two of them, placing his teacup down with clattering force for emphasis.

"It's not that we don't believe you, Ozzy," Rhali soothed in a very unsoothing tone. "You're just full of shit half the time. That sort of makes people sceptical."

"I am not!" And he flicked one of his own raisins at Rhali, which lost itself into her tangled hair and set her to shrieking so loudly that it actually drew a few questioning gazes. Al fell to laughing hard enough to rock his chair backwards and, shaking my head as I automatically reached a hand out to stable it – just in case – I glanced absently back towards my father.

As though he'd felt my gaze, Father's attention drifted towards me. From such a distance between us there was little he could give by way of communication, but the slight inclination of his head, the brief flash of a reserved smile that was barely visible at all, was more than enough. I hadn't spoken to my parents since receiving my 'Certificate of Hogwarts Graduate', yet the pride and recognition he conveyed in that simple gesture spoke more than words.

Father and I had undergone a rocky sequence from my wary distancing to his lingering anger and disapproval that faded to neutrality and finally – to my relief – his acceptance. It had been an awkward first week moving back into the Manor after school let out; I hadn't spoken face-to-face to either my mother or my father since I'd briefly stopped into LeFay to announce my separation from the business. We hadn't exchanged words either, except for the single letter that Father had sent me.

Mother had been the one to pave the way to recovery. She'd acted as though nothing had happened at all, as though I hadn't turned the household upside down by subverting every expectation the Wizarding world held for the Malfoy heir. She'd offered me a welcoming embrace that lasted only a second longer than it perhaps otherwise would have, and had not spoken a word about it. It was actually a little eerie given that Father had remained at a blank-faced distance, simply offering me a nod and a muted word of welcome at my arrival.

By the end of that first week, Mother had evidently felt that enough was enough. Father hadn't made any attempt to mend the awkward void between us and I certainly didn't feel confident enough to do so myself. Even though I was officially classified as an adult, Father still held the power to intimidate me like a pre-schooler.

He did not, however, hold that same power over my mother.

She'd chosen a night when Al had been absent; he'd been called last minute to Professor Longbottom's house, something about spending the evening looking for Puffing roots in the forest out the back of his godfather's estate. Apparently he had a knack for magically identifying the location of the buried plants, and Longbottom had called on him numerous times before for such a reason.

At the end of dinner, Mother had uttered a very pointed sigh that succeeded in drawing both my father's and my own attention. She'd placed her napkin down on the table beside her plate and turned deliberately towards me.

"Scorpius, have you considered further on what areas you'd like to pursue hereon out in terms of career of future studies?"

Had I considered…? Had I done anything _but_ consider, would have been a more appropriate question. Mother didn't know just how much simply because I wasn't one to verbalise my contemplations; I may take time to reach a decision, but when I did I was firm in that decision and it was entirely my own.

Finishing my mouthful of roast, I'd placed my cutlery down on the plate and cleared my throat. "I have, Mother."

"And?"

I'd glanced towards Father. He'd been staring at me with mild interest, as though I were discussing the weather, and I'd actually found that more disconcerting than something more distinct and final and accusing. "I have considered… perhaps future study. Or an apprenticeship, if I can find a suitable master."

"And in what field might that be?"

I'd snapped my gaze back to my mother's. She knew very well what field I would desire to go into. It was no secret in the Malfoy family that I favoured and was good at Potions. "I'm considering Potioneering, Mother."

"Ah yes, of course." She'd nodded her head as though understanding had finally dawned upon her. I hadn't had long to wonder what she was playing at, for the next moment she'd turned her attention towards Father. "Well, your father was always an lover of Potions. I'm sure he still has friends in the field who would be willing to assist in directing you."

I'd blinked in surprise, similarly turning towards my father. Father had enjoyed Potioneering? Why hadn't I heard of that? As far as I knew, he'd been committed to becoming a networker of purebloods since school.

The only indication that Father was in any way discomforted had been in the stillness of his expression. He'd stared back at my mother, fork still held aloft in his hand, and I'd gotten the distinct impression that they were holding a very long-winded, silent conversation. A conversation that featured both my mother's insistence and my father's exasperation.

Finally, Father had laid his fork down on his plate. Bowing his head slightly, he'd nodded. "Indeed. I was once an avid Potions student."

"Top of your year, as I recall it," Mother had added fondly.

Father had raised an eyebrow at her. "At times. Hermione Granger – or Hermione Weasley as she is now – was a sore competitor for primary position. I believe she even trounced me in our final year of brewing our Barruffio's Brain Elixir."

I'd had to fight to keep my jaw from falling slack into idiotic lolling. I'd never heard about this before. Father had always been close-lipped about his Hogwarts days; I'd always been under the impression he had little to be proud of in his actions, and history had it that the Malfoys had been something of temporary Voldemort sympathisers. That Father was a Potions students – more than that, a _fantastic_ potions student – was… well, there was little that could change my perspective of my father and that was one of them.

"You were good at Potions?" My voice had been low, little more than a whisper. I'd felt a little betrayed, at Father's secrecy, at his apparent disapproval of my chosen field, and hoped it didn't show through.

Father had returned my gaze. "I was."

"Until a few years after you were born, he actually still attended Balthamos' Experimental Brewing classes, you know," Mother had chimed in. She'd turned a smile upon me, and I'd gotten the distinct impression she was feeling very satisfied with herself.

She had a right to, too. Father had obviously been very uncomfortable, perhaps even felt guilty, and I was still swimming up from a deep, pervading sense of shock. With barely a handful of words, Mother had unhinged us both. "Did you really?" At Father's nod, I'd shaken my head, baffled. "Why did you stop?"

Lifting one should in an uncharacteristically casual gesture, Father had shrugged. "For a number of reasons, lack of time being the primary one. LeFay Connected was fast becoming a leading business, and it was a priority."

"Did you… you enjoy it? I mean, even after you stopped experimenting?"

A small smile had settled upon Father's face. His eyes had become distant, faintly glazed, and he'd nodded. "Did I enjoy it? Yes. Yes, I still did. I'd hazard a guess that I would still enjoy it if I partook of such hobbies even now. I regret that I have not found the time to further pursue it."

That announcement had floored me more than anything else; Father had not only enjoyed Potions in the past, but felt that he still would. It made his silence towards me in the past weeks assume a decidedly different shade. I hadn't quite understand the feelings behind that silence, not what drove it, but… perhaps he was simply as uncertain of how to approach our relationship as I was?

Over the following weeks, the dynamics of my family gradually fell back into normalcy. Father and I, at the continued roundabout urging of my Mother, gradually overrode the awkwardness that had grown between us and even, dare I say it, grew a little closer. It was strange, possessing the knowledge of that one small piece of my father's past. Strange, but satisfying.

More than that, though, Father no longer seemed to hold back on what was evidently still a passion for him. Potions became a point of similarity between the two of us, something we could discuss and share enthusiasm for in a way we hadn't since I'd first taken up flying. We didn't go so far as to brew together in the stone cottage out the back of the Manor dedicated to such pursuits, but I did on one occasion glance up from the cauldron that Al and I stood beside and catch a glimpse of Father in the doorway. I hadn't commented on his presence, nor did I mention it to him thereafter, but I was under the impression it wasn't the first time he'd done so. Nor the last, most likely.

He was supportive in his own way, too. Little things, like dropping words of a conversation he'd shared via letter with Master Gebralski, Potions expert, who was apparently looking for an apprentice in the coming year. Or that he'd openly reminisce on his own considerations in his youth, when he'd contemplated the benefits of attending St. Kleo's College for Fine Brewing as opposed to Oxford's Potioneering University that more strongly emphasised experimental studies. Those little things, words that I often only realised the significance of after the conversation had progressed, were some of the kindest I'd ever received from my father.

Even gazing condescendingly across the marquee-shaded grounds, shaking my head at the antics of my father and his childhood rivals, I could feel affection well within me.

My attention was drawn from where Father had returned once more to very pointedly ignoring Al's father and Mr Weasley by the appearance of Rose at my mother's side. She, Mother and Ginny exchanged a few words before Mother scanned her surrounds, caught sight of me, and gestured with a sweep of her hand in our direction. Rose's face brightened as she made her way over to us. She fell into one of the spare seats a moment later, brushing aside the spill of crazy curls that seemed to have fallen loose of their careful styling since the ceremony.

"Hello, everyone. Beautiful day, isn't it?" She smiled around the circle of us, her smile wavering slightly as it fell on Rhali. "Rhali, you do know you have cake in your hair, don't you?"

"It's muffin, actually," Rhali sniffed, not even sparing Rose a glance as she turned her attention onto picking raisins out of another muffin. "And yes, I do. I'm saving it for later."

"Right…" Rose drew out slowly, a confused frown etching into her brow. No, Rhali and Rose had not become any more amiable in the past few weeks. I doubted they ever would; the sheer clashing of their personalities and of how Rhali treated Rose specifically was what actually helped me to fully realise for the first time that Rhali did actually quite like me these days.

Brushing aside Rhali's rudeness – because friend she may be, I could still perceive her actions as rude – and Ozzy's half-smile of apology, she turned towards Al. "I've been looking for you."

"Me? Why?" The wariness instantly raised Al's hackles.

"Oh, don't be like that," Rose sighed. "Although, I suppose in this instance your cautiousness is warranted." She paused, quirking her lips to the side in a disgruntled expression. "I was just talking to a couple of the ex-prefects."

"And?" Al's voice was still guarded, but he sounded more confused now, and curious.

"From what I can gather, they'd like to talk to you."

"From what you can gather?" Al slumped back in his chair, his shoulders hunching slightly and a small frown settling on his brow. "What would make you think that? And what do you mean by 'talk'. People don't usually want to talk to me."

That wasn't entirely true, I thought, though didn't say as much. People did like talking to Al – myself being a prime contender for 'Number One Person Who Most Enjoys Doing So' – but Al just seemed to be under the misguided impression that people just… didn't.

Rose pushed on through the scepticism in Al's words. "Well, they weren't exactly subtle about their intentions. Dillon and Grettle were actually quite blunt. They said they'd really like to talk to you, to apologise. That they would have liked to have done so earlier, except that you weren't at school and the exam period didn't exactly seem like the best time to do it."

That, too, wasn't entirely true. Certainly, exam periods were definitely not the most ideal times to bring up awkward topics, not with nerves running high and minds churning over essays and spells learned by rote. But in reality, I doubt that anyone could have approached Al and left with their heads intact, and not because Al would have bitten it off. From the instant he arrived on Hogwarts' grounds, as tightly strung as a bowstring and not entirely because of the exams, Rhali and Ozzy seemed to take on the roles of bodyguards. The glare Rhali directed towards anyone who even glanced at Al sideways was enough to induce heart failure, and Ozzy himself had adopted a fiercely deterring expression that was only made less intimidating because Rhali stood alongside him. Even I'd been wary to approach him; I could hardly blame Dillon and Grettle for their own hesitancy.

Surprisingly, Al didn't seem as averse to the prospect of talking as I'd assumed he would be. Oh, he certainly took a moment or seven to reach a decision on the matter, but finally he nodded and rose to his feet. "Okay. I'll talk to them."

"You will?" Rose blinked, seeming genuinely surprised by his leniency.

Al shrugged. "Why not, if it makes them feel better? It's not like I'm probably ever going to see them again."

"We're coming with you," Ozzy said, rising to his feet also. Rhali jumped up an instant later, her scowl already firmly affixed.

Rose appeared a little horrified at the prospect, but nodded her head in acceptance quickly enough. "I sort of assumed you'd want some back up, or whatever you call them. Come on then, I'll come too."

I was on my own feet before I realised it, but before we could take a step away from our table Rose turned towards me. "Oh, Scorpius, Yeong was looking for you I think."

"Sorry?"

"Professor Yeong. He's been looking for you to ask you something – not sure what – but he seemed pretty insistent. You might want to find him yourself. He was talking to Verne last I checked, so he'd probably appreciate the rescue."

I had to nod in heartfelt agreement at that. Anyone would be desperate to escape the Divination teacher's clutches, even the other professors. Yeong was generally quite mild and easy going when it came to difficult matters, but surely he wouldn't feel any inclination to remain within her grasp for longer than absolutely necessary.

Even so, I hardly wanted to leave Al at that moment.

Al, as he had recently tended to do, seemed to have overheard my unspoken dilemma. He nudged me with an elbow. "Go find him, would you? I'm all good."

"I'd really rather I come with you," I replied with a frown, but Al waved a hand at me, disregarding my concern.

"Don't be an idiot. It'll probably only take a few seconds anyway. Help them get whatever unfounded guilt they hold off their chests, you know?" He shooed me away with another wave, small smile on his face that spoke words of gratitude and fondness that he didn't voice. "Go. Off with you. I'm fine. Besides, I've got three loyal hounds to accompany me."

"Hounds?" Ozzy muttered, amused.

"Loyal?" Rhali parroted in a tone identical to Ozzy's. "I, my dear master, am far more likely to chew your heels."

"Your support it comforting, Rhali," Al said, smirking at her. He glanced back towards me. "Really. Go. I'll see you in a minute." And with yet another wave of his hand to me, he turned towards Rose, gestured at her to lead on, and soon disappeared into the crowd. Rhali and Ozzy followed on his tail, Ozzy doing a rather adept impression of said hound that Rhali watched with open disgust and a shake of her head.

Sighing, I turned my own attention to seeking out Yeong. Being at the taller end of the spectrum, I was able to see over the shoulders and half of the heads of those in the room. The bobble of Verne's ponytail was visible over by the fruit platter buffet stand, and I set to weaving my way through the crowd.

Yeong was indeed still talking to Verne. Or being talked to, as was perhaps the more appropriate description of their interaction. He simply nodded slowly, periodically, with an expression of mild interest touching his features. He must be about the only person with an ounce of wit I knew that was able to listen to Verne for minutes on end without a glazed expression.

"…could have told him that the stars aligned not this century but that three hundred years hence, which clearly skews his readings," Verne was saying. The bangles on her arms jangled as she gesticulated widely. Yeong leant back with practiced ease to avoid a swing of one arm, his expression altering not an ounce. "Fool of a man; I've always said Kirk's Institute churns out nothing but bumbling idiots. The nerve of him, to dispute me! So I said to him –"

"Professor, you wanted to talk to me?"

It was probably rude of me to interrupt Verne, but I figured she was no longer my professor so I was entitled to a little rudeness. Well, she hadn't really been my professor for years – no one in their right mind would consider Divination an examinable subject, making the study of it for formal purposes pointless – but still.

I thought I saw a brief flicker of relief dart across Yeong's eyes, but before he could reply Verne spoke. "Talk? To you?" She shook her head sagely. "No, my dear, I've no need to profess your future pathway. You are firmly set, I feel."

If I hadn't been dubious of Divination beforehand, that single statement would have done it for me. Verne truly was the bumbling idiot that she so accused other Diviners of being. "Actually, I was speaking to Professor Yeong."

"Oh." Verne blinked. "Oh, well then… is it urgent? I was just –"

"Expressly," I interrupted once more. "I'm sorry, I won't take up much time."

Blinking rapidly at me once more, Verne opened and closed her mouth for a moment before nodding. She glanced towards Yeong. "We'll continue this later, Guiren."

"It would be my pleasure," Yeong replied, bowing his head slightly at her departure as she swept into the crowd in a puff of sickly sweet perfume. Watching her disappear, Yeong shook his head slightly. "Such a riveting conversationalist, is Madame Verne."

I sincerely hoped he was being sarcastic; it was always a little difficult to tell with Yeong. Deliberately placing aside the horrifying possibility that he wasn't, I adopted a contrite expression. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, Professor. Rose Weasley said something about you wanting to speak to me?"

Yeong smiled benevolently. "It's fine, it is fine, Mr Malfoy. No harm done. And yes, if I could I'll borrow a moment of your time."

I bowed my head in an obliging nod, striving to keep my discomfort from showing on my face – I felt the urge to fidget uncharacteristically, and not just because the need to follow Al was like a necessity. Though I'd renewed my passion and considered a future in Potions, I'd been unable to confess my change of heart to my favourite teacher. It left a discomforting tightness in my gut, of guilt and sadness, but I couldn't bring myself to approach him once more. Not after I'd so blatantly denied his assistance the previous year. It is because of that very reason that I found talking to him, especially one-on-one, so awkward.

"Of course, Professor. Was there something you needed?"

"Not something I need, Mr Malfoy." Yeong smiled and tilted his head slightly. In an instant I knew what he was going to say. "It has come to my attention that you have resumed your dedication to Potioneering."

I bit back the urge to cringe. Swallowing, I nodded once more. "I have, sir."

Yeong's smile widened. "Wonderful. That is truly wonderful to hear."

If I allowed myself to cringe I would surely have sunken to the floor in embarrassment. "I'm glad you think so, sir. I… I realise I perhaps should have mentioned this to you earlier, but I –"

Yeong held up a quelling hand. "Not at all, Mr Malfoy. You should feel no obligation to tell me anything."

Those words, said in kindness, actually made me feel worse. "No, Professor, but I would have liked to. I confess that I simply didn't know how to broach the subject."

Dipping his chin in an understanding nod, Yeong's smile softened. "That is entirely understandable. It is difficult to face that which you have already turned from. But," and he paused, his head tilted back the other way as though he were shifting his gaze to regard me from an alternate angle. "It may have perhaps proved beneficial to you, had you done so earlier."

Of course it would have. I would maybe heave been able to take up extra studies in the field, perhaps even going back to assisting Yeong in his personal brewing once more. I might have learned a little extra of how best to integrate myself into the field. I knew that, and it only made my regret more profound. "You're right, of course, Professor. I do regret that. Sincerely."

"Ah, but there is no harm done." With surprising intimacy, Yeong placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. I just withheld from starting. "I have a number of friends who would be more than interested in taking on an apprentice. I recall that you were particularly partial to the works of Frances Helly, were you not?"

Frances Helly? Helly, as in my childhood idol for her work on mind potions? I had long struggled to force the image of the stout, greying witch glimpsed in the newspaper from my mind as an impossibility, but the memories remained. At Yeong's words, I could barely keep myself from quivering with anticipation. "I… yes, I am very… partial to her work."

The widening of Yeong's smile suggested he wasn't fooled by my mild reply. "Then would you perhaps desire a meeting with her, should I be able to arrange it?"

It would have taken me a second to reply in the affirmative, for affirmative was the only possible response I could have given. But that second was interrupted by an outburst that echoed piercingly loud across the grounds.

"YOU BASTARD! NO WAY IN HELL!"

Mine was not the only head that whipped around to the source of the voice. Conveniently enough, there was a very distinct parting in the crowd between where I stood and the situation that afforded me a prime view of Al, Rhali, Ozzy, Rose, and a number of other graduates. All of them were staring in a mixture of horror, terror and shock at Rhali.

Rhali appeared barely a twitch away from spitting fire, and was the only one in a ten foot radius of her not shrinking in a state of cowed. Poor Dillon, who seemed to be the direct focus of her rage, was nearly crumbling to the floor for the trembling of his knees.

Well, except for Al and Ozzy. They actually looked to be fighting back the urge to burst into laughter. A fight that they were evidently losing as I heard the very distinct and memorable sound of Al's laughter, breaking through the stunned silence of the marquee, clamped down upon as his hand clapped over his lips.

I had to do something. Only Al or Ozzy of the onlookers seemed in any mindset to be able to reign Rhali in from her quivering rage, but they hardly seemed inclined to at the present. With a glance towards Yeong, I tipped my head in another bow. "Thank you so much, Professor. That would be… that would be fantastic. Brilliant. I could wish for nothing more. But, um…" I cast a sidelong glance back at the situation behind me, still frozen in terror. "I'm sorry, I think perhaps I should…"

Yeong's smile had broadened wider than I'd ever seen it before. Crows feet crinkled in the corners of his eyes, giving him nothing if not a jolly appearance. "By all means, Mr Malfoy. Please do. I'll be sure to contact you by owl at the earliest possible moment."

Bowing my head once more and uttering another brief word of thanks, I spun on my heel and strode into the crowd. Of course Rhali would explode now, and of course the victim of her attack would need outsider support. And of course it would happen at just the moment when the most wonderful thing that could possibly arise for my future career had appeared.

How vexing.

And yet it was with a smile that I faced the cringing ex-prefects, struggled to calm Rhali, and scowled reprovingly at the still-laughing Al and Ozzy. Because there was precious little that could possibly dampen my mood in that instant. Very little at all.

* * *

_~Albus~_

The grandfather clock chimed for the second time since the letter had come. Barely a handful of words had been spoken since, and all of them had been short and stilted. My eyes were the only ones fixed upon the bleached parchment envelope; everyone else was deliberately ignoring it and waiting for my move.

I couldn't. Move, that was. My nervousness was roiling inside of me, tampered only by the phantom hands of my medication, but even those hands were struggling to muffle the rising wave. I was more nervous now than I had been since my exams and those were months ago.

All because of that single letter upon the table.

"Al, maybe you should just… open it."

Ozzy spoke up once more, with the exact same phrase he'd been repeating for the last half an hour. His expression was compassionate, but there was an edge of exasperation to it too. He didn't want to wait anymore, and not because the contents of that letter held any particular importance to him personally. I knew that my own nervousness was contagious when it hung around for too long, and right now, after nearly an hour of waiting, it was certainly hanging around. The jiggling of Ozzy's leg was shaking the dining table where he sat, Rhali's pacing had taken on an almost striding length, and even Scor had been reduced to fidgeting in his own seat. Mum had passed back and forth to the kitchen and living room by turns more times than I'd cared to count, and Dad had actually reached forward to touch the letter a couple of times, as though to encourage me to open it.

It didn't. I was frozen, and it didn't seem like I was going to move anytime soon.

"Sweetheart, I think it would be best to just do it quickly." Mum had paused behind my chair once more, her hands resting just behind my shoulders. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"If you don't get into this one, then there's always the other ones to come," Dad added. "The first letter is always the hardest."

I felt my gaze drawn towards Scor as they had so often over the past hour. As with each time prior, he was staring straight back at him. His expression was smooth, closed, guarded and likely unreadable to most, but I could discern the meaning of it anyway. He was nervous too; maybe not as nervous as I was, but certainly uneasy.

Because yes, there would be other universities, other potential acceptance letters after this one. But over the past weeks of contemplation, I'd realised one very important thing: I didn't want to go anywhere else but Edinburgh. And the reason for that was because Scor would be in Edinburgh.

It was probably the wrong reason for desiring as much, but I couldn't help myself. The more time I spent with Scor, the more I realised I truly didn't want to be separated from him. I'd grown accustomed to sleeping in the same room as him, the same bed, and those instances where we didn't sleep side-by-side I now found distinctly uncomfortable. As though something – some very big thing – was missing.

Scor had been offered a position working with Frances Helly, a Scottish Potions Master who was reputedly one of the best of her generation. She was, at least at present, based in Edinburgh and looked to be remaining there for some time. And Scor – he would not be her apprentice. No, Helly had been so impressed with his enthusiasm and knowledge upon their meeting – as well as his N.E.W.T marks; Outstanding, naturally, but more than that he'd actually topped the European charts – that she'd offered him a position as a Research Fellow and Junior Brewer in her department. The very fact that it was Helly's department meant that not only would he be paid remarkably well for a graduate level job but that he would get the opportunity to study pretty much anything he desired so long as he produced sufficient results.

I won't lie, I was a little envious of him. Happy for him, of course – so happy I sometimes wondered if I was actually happier about his employment than he was himself – but envious too. Of the certainty of his position, of the fact that he was doing _exactly_ what he loved in the best possible circumstances.

Rhali, too. She'd gotten into Oxford; she knew she had, even though her own acceptance letter hadn't arrived yet. Her dad knew someone who knew someone who put in a good word for her, and she'd basically been guaranteed a spot. She wouldn't be completely content until she too received her letter, I was sure, but that knowledge had eased her own nervousness somewhat.

And Ozzy? Well, Ozzy was firm in his decision to make no decision at all. Following his carefree spirit, he'd instead settled upon the idea of travelling. For twelve months, he said, and just about everywhere, but I would hardly be surprised if he went for longer. Ozzy had the same itchy feet his mother did – quite literally at times, as he'd kept up his running regime and now became a little twitchy if he didn't get the opportunity to follow it – and I could think of nothing that would suit him more than just enjoying himself in doing exactly that. In seeing the sights. He was all for the journey rather than the destination, after all.

So no, none of my friends were in quite the same position as I was. I didn't begrudge them; not in the slightest. But still, though I appreciated their concern for me, just as I appreciated that my Mum and Dad afforded it, they didn't truly get it. I was barely keeping a hold on my nausea and upwelling anxiety.

Well, _I_ wasn't. The Maintenance Draught still did that.

Silence ensued after Dad's words and the only sound was Rhali's pacing, Ozzy's leg jiggling, and the resulting squeak of the wooden chair beneath him. I was staring so hard at the letter that I couldn't even see it anymore.

Finally, it became too much for Rhali. Pausing in her step beside me, she snatched up the letter. "For God's sake, Al, if you won't open it then I will."

I felt a jolt of panic course through me instantly, but a second later it was stoppered by Scor's snatching hands as he relieved her of the parchment. "No, Rhali, I don't think you will."

"Well, someone has to." Rhali sighed, exasperated. "Al, you're a paranoid bundle of nerves. I've never known you to be able to hold off on something this long; you always have to know. Why the hell would you change that now?"

To the scowls and sighs of my family and friends – mostly directed at Rhali rather than in agreement with her, I felt – I muttered, "It's not me. Blame the medication. I'm sure it would be open by now, otherwise."

That caused another lull, silence seeping through the room. It was Scor who broke it. "Would you like me to read it first, then?"

I met his gaze once more. Yes. No. Maybe – I didn't know. Would it be better for someone – no, for _Scor_ – to read it first? Swallowing down the dry tightening of my throat, I nodded hesitantly. "Y-yes. Yes please."

Everyone in the room with the exception of myself sagged in their seats. Or into a seat in Rhali's case. Scor held my gaze for a moment longer, as though ensuring that I was truly sincere in my request, before nodding shortly and peeling open the seal of the envelope. It unfolded with a crack and as he drew the bleached paper from the envelope he dropped his eyes to skim at the words.

Silence. Stupid, nail-biting, nerve-wracking silence. My breathing sounded far too loud, the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock's pendulum a gong sounding in my ear. I stared at Scor, attempting to gauge a response, to glean an insight into what he read.

When he glanced up at me once more, I could make out no such sign or indication. That in itself was unusual, for I knew I'd grown to be able to read Scor well these days. But… nothing. Without a word, he held out the letter to me.

 _Really? Oh, well done, Scor. You were supposed to_ tell _me, not make me read it myself._ I felt irrationally irritated by my boyfriend's actions, but couldn't even urge my face into a scowl or half-hearted glare as I accepted the letter. My eyes dropped to the parchment, scanning the computer-printed text in precise lines of black on white.

When I reached the end of the letter, I slumped back in my seat. The letter slipped from my fingers onto the table as I dropped my head into my hands. A heavy sigh escaped through my lips, nearly overridden by the flurry of "well?" and "what is it?" and "did you get in?"

I couldn't reply to any of them. Only three words seemed capable of falling from my lips.

"Oh, thank God."


	23. Stranger Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is the actual last chapter of what I will admit has felt like a bit of an epic! I hope you enjoyed reading it and, if you did, that you'd take the time to let me know your thoughts; anything, comments, suggestions on writing/improving (though please be nice *cringe*). I'd just really appreciate any and every review.
> 
> I do have something of a little epilogue story after this which I'm as of yet not entiiiiiirely sure if I want to post; it's a bit of a kink and just more of a plot bunny that I had to write down to get it out of my head! Anyway, if you liked the story and are interested, I felt I should give you a heads up just in case!
> 
> Hope you like the chapter and thanks for sticking with the story the entire way!

Edinburgh University looked like a castle. At least that was how Mary Wallace always saw it. It was how she had seen it since she was five years old and she and her mother had taken a trip to the city to see a man who Mary later learned was one of her many possible dads. Or 'uncles' as her mother called them.

Since that fateful trip, Mary had always wanted nothing more than to attend the mystical school as a student. In blissful ignorance in her childhood and later in steadfast, aching need. When she'd received her letter of admission, it had been the happiest day of her life.

Mary had always had a green thumb. Many attributed her love of plants to that her mother held; Mary, however, would dispute that fact to her last breath. Her interests did _not_ lie in smoking weed, nor in growing and selling it as her mother had been known to do. Mary had always been more interested in paleobotany and the adaptively evolved descendants of now-extinct plant species. She could spend hours pouring over sketches and comparing them to descendant samples, could lose half a day buried in a book of taxonomy or phytotomy.

People at her old school had called her strange. Had thought her 'weird' for her passion. She had long since decided not to care what others thought of her, though such a resolution was often easier said than done.

One of the best parts about attending Edinburgh University was that it was far, far away from Mary's mother and the assumptions that were automatically made of her. That was a bonus she hadn't expected, and one she was similarly very fond of.

As her final lecture for the day drew to a close, Mary hastened to stash her laptop and textbook into her bag and slip from the room before the greater mass of evacuating students could similarly flee. Not that she felt as though she were fleeing; despite the fact that Reid was an appalling lecturer, Introductory Phytomorphology was one of her favourite subjects.

Still, she was eager to leave that day. She had a date of sorts to attend.

Spilling out of the cavernous halls, Mary squinted into the late afternoon sunshine. Students swept past her with the fluidity of trained dancers, easily avoiding contact and passing by one another. Taking a moment to get her bearings, Mary set out for the usual meeting place. It wasn't far from their favourite coffee shop, even if meeting to the north of campus meant she had to trek the entire length of the university. It wasn't like she minded the walk. Not in the slightest. She could never see enough of her castle.

Stepping onto West Main Road and peering through the sparse throngs of people, Mary felt a smile spread across her lips as she saw Al. His eyes were downturned towards the phone in his hand, presenting only the unkempt crown of his head, but the distinctive, vibrant streak of grass green splitting his fringe was as noticeable as a sign held aloft overhead. Hastening her step, she jogged to his side.

"Hey, Al. Sorry I'm late."

Al snapped his head up towards her at her words. Immediately a returning smile spread across his face. He was a good looking young man, if a little unobtrusive in that he could hardly be classified as tall or physically imposing, and possessed the most incredible pair of eyes she'd ever seen. Green, the lucky thing. Mary's favourite colour had always been green.

"Hi, Mary. No worries. You were coming all the way across campus, weren't you?"

Mary nodded, falling into step beside Al and they turned to continue on down West Main. "Yeah, I had Reid's class. You had him last year, didn't you?"

Al groaned in sympathy. "Oh yeah, for Intro Phytomorph, right? He's pretty appalling."

"Isn't he just?"

"Four more weeks, Mary. Four more weeks til the end of term and you'll be free."

"Hardly," Mary laughed, shaking her head. "You said he takes third year Microbiology too, didn't you?"

Al glanced towards her sidelong. "You don't even like Microbiology."

"Yeah, but it might be useful."

"But it's _Reid_."

"Point."

They chattered lightly as they walked, commiserating over terrible excuses for lecturers and the looming exams, of work – of which they were both employed at Sticks and Twigs Nursery – and their mourning the extended trip of their boss, whose vibrant company seemed to set the place alight with enthusiasm. It seemed to take but moments for them to reach the strip of cafes and convenience stores set several blocks back from the university. Al led them unwaveringly towards Black Horse, the customary street-side service that made the best coffee in the city.

As soon as they stepped through the door, Mary saw that Scor and Rhali had already beaten them there. Through the hubbub of the overcrowded café, the pair had somehow managed to acquire a table with four chairs for their group. It said something of the two of them that no one had tried to steal one of those chairs.

Scor and Rhali would have to be two of the most opposite people in terms of physical appearance. While Rhali was a stick-thin girl, all bones and elbows with a mop of dreadlocks that hung to her waist – held with feeble orderliness beneath a bandana today – and an almost permanent scowl on her angular features, Scor was the picture of aloof composure. He was the sort of person that drew the eye and held it, though urged one more into the seat of awed observer than to seek friendship. His cool, straight features looked to be almost carved from marble, hair always perfectly coiffed and a posture that would put the kings and queens of old to shame and had initially made Mary feel uncomfortable in her own skin. In her own clothes, too, for while she consistently clad herself in the simple jeans and jacket that was almost a uniform of university students – Al included – Scor looked as though he'd walked straight from a designers store, generally complete with sunglasses and tie. Somehow, he managed to make it look entirely natural that a twenty year old would wear a casual suit and tie.

At least Mary wasn't as bad as Rhali; the other girl periodically changed her own outfit between a gypsy skirt and leather jacket to jeans so ripped they couldn't have been fashionably so beneath a dark hooded jumper that swum on her and depicted the words 'Maths is Magic' in patchy scrawl. In itself it wouldn't have been so bad except that she'd torn both sleeves off at the elbows in a fit of glee the day she'd purchased it.

Rhali was many things but fashionable was not one of them.

As Al and Mary entered the café, Scor glanced up as though his attention was drawn by a lodestone. A wide smile – too perfect to be human – spread across his face. Mary felt not for the first time a hint of wistfulness, a touch of regret, that he was both very gay and very in love.

With Al. The fact that Al very much deserved his love didn't ease Mary's wistfulness in the slightest.

"Decaf chai latte," Scor offered, handing over a cup to Al, who accepted it as he sunk into the seat beside his boyfriend. Mary settled herself next to him, taking the proffered cappuccino with a nod of thanks.

"You're here early today," Al commented, peering at Scor over his cup.

"Yeah, Frances chivvied all of us out this afternoon. A top secret experiment was initiating at five o'clock on the dot, apparently."

"What kind of experiment?" Mary asked. She didn't have a whole lot of interest in chemistry, but Scor's obvious passion for it made it easy enough to seem as much. All she had to do was ask open-ended questions.

In this instance, however, Scor simply arched an eyebrow at her. "A top secret kind."

"You're full of shit," Rhali interjected. "And so is Helly. She's sleeping with her that bloke from theoretical and going out early on a date. Come on, we all know it."

"She is not," Scor sighed, exasperated, and Mary got the distinct impression that the discussion rising had been ongoing before she and Al had arrived. "Jeremy is far too intimidated by her to be able to conduct himself in any sort of intimacy."

Rhali shrugged. "Maybe Helly likes that in a man. The capacity to supremely dominate them and bend them to her will." The grin she directed towards Scor was lupine.

"And what, pray tell, Rhali, would you know about such things?" Al asked. That question too was one that had arisen on multiple occasions, and Mary recognised it as being one that had been birthed long ago. Rhali somehow managed to draw it to the surface at least once every time they caught up, and Mary had only met the other girl about a dozen times or so.

"I'm a relationship expert. You should know that, Ally," Rhali replied, using her pet name for Al. The name that apparently _no one_ could use but Rhali. Mary wasn't sure if it was Al or Rhali who had instilled that rule.

"With all of your eons of experience," Scor muttered, sipping at his tea. He, unlike Al, had resisted Mary's suggestions to try coffee, professing an undying hatred for the taste.

"I don't need experience. I'm an observer of the idiots who engage in courtship dances. You'd be surprised how much you notice when you understand that what it is you're observing will never directly effect you." She paused, tilting her head slightly and letting her eyes drift thoughtfully. "It's like watching a gorilla's mating ritual."

"And there you go, Scor. We've just been likened to gorillas."

"It's better than walruses, I suppose."

"Or chipmunks."

"Or worms."

"Do worms even have courtship rituals?" Mary asked the table at large.

"Of course they do," Rhali sniffed, not even glancing at Mary. "Just because it's not obvious to the untrained eye doesn't mean it isn't there."

Rhali was always like that. For the first few times Mary had met the other girl, she had harboured the distinct impression that she was hated. It had only been when she'd met Scor alone briefly before Al and Rhali had arrived one afternoon and tentatively aired her concerns that her fears had been slightly quelled.

"Oh no, that's just Rhali. She pretends to hate everyone for a while. I thought she hated me for about the first six months of our acquaintance. It turned out she was just testing the waters."

It had been nearly a year and a half that Mary had known Rhali. She was still not really friendly, but at least Mary wasn't greeted with a sceptical glare anymore.

"How long are you up in Edinburgh for this time, Rhali?" Mary asked as the thought arose.

Rhali actually spared her a glance this time before turning back to her own coffee. "Only for the day."

"Just for the day? That's a long trip for just one day."

"That's because I don't take the train like an idiot," Rhali replied, her tone thick with condescension.

"You fly up, then?"

"Yeah, Rhali. Do you fly up, then?" Scor's smirk suggested there was something, some sort of joke, beneath the surface of Mary's awareness. She paid it no mind; her friends had a lot of those sort of jokes, and a lot of secrets too. Surprisingly, it didn't bother Mary as much as she'd thought it once might have.

Rhali bared her teeth in something that resembled more of a snarl than a smile. "Of course, my dear Scorpius. You should know, as it is my incredibly loaded friend who pays my airfares."

Mary turned incredulously towards Scor. "You pay for Rhali to fly up?"

Before Scor could reply, Rhali nodded her head fervently, grin widening. "Oh yes, Scor is so altruistic like that. He's got a high-paying job and a wealthy family, and he's incredibly generous with his savings." Her smile was not sweet at all, though thankfully it was directed only towards Scor. "Same goes for Ozzy, too."

"Ozzy's… your friend in Portugal, right?"

"In Lisbon, yeah," Al replied, because the unspoken conversation of twitching facial expressions and mock glares shared by Rhali and Scor prevented either from doing so. "Not anymore, though. He was headed back to Stockholme last heard."

"Stockholme? That's a bit of a leap."

"Yeah, and he uses Scor's hard-earned cash to fly him there," Rhali chimed in.

"Would you shut up? No one's buying it." Scor sighed, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. That was news to Mary – who wasn't buying it? – but she enjoyed watching their exchange too much to interrupt it over the matter.

"Scor, I'm just preaching of what a wonderful person you are. Al's such a lucky guy."

"Indeed." Al grinned teasingly, though there was a note of sincerity in his tone too.

"Don't you start too," Scor warned, glancing sideways at his boyfriend.

Al leaned towards him to press a kiss on his cheek. "I'm sure you would if Rhali asked you to."

"Hardly, if it was Rhali."

"You would. You love her."

"Yeah, Scor, you love me," Rhali interjected, leaning sideways in her own seat to nudge him with an elbow.

"I most certainly do not. You're a terror."

"You love terror."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"You drive me insane."

"Yeah, and you love that too."

"Honestly!" There was a brief scuffle. Scor unearthed something – it looked like a long rod of polished wood – and half raised it, lurching forwards in his chair. Skidding backwards in her seat, Rhali cackled manically, delighting in the havoc she wrought. Al, a look of brief concern flashing across his face but chortling nonetheless, threw himself onto Scor and nearly knocked him to the floor. The three of them collapsed into one another, a riot of giggles and exclamations and pants of exertion.

"Scor, put it away!"

"You don't have the balls, Malfoy."

"Don't bring my anatomy into this, Hamphyn!"

Mary found herself laughing in a mixture of bemusement and sheer merriment. She didn't really understand what was going on, and it left her feeling maybe a little excluded. But it was entertaining to watch, as numerous others in the café were evidently realising from the chuckles around them. At least, that was until a flushed Al righted himself in his seat, stashing the wooden rod into his satchel, and slumped into her shoulder in a casually friendly slouch. He rolled his eyes at her in exasperation, as though asking "can you believe these two?" while said two continued to argue with such rapid fire banter that Mary didn't even attempt to follow it.

No, Mary didn't truly understand a lot of what was said by Al and Scor. She understood even less of what Rhali said, though attributed that to the fact that she'd seen her less frequently. But even so, she felt comfortable with her new friends, friends unlike any she'd ever had before. She'd always been seen as 'weird' or 'different', never quite fitting in. An oddity.

But then, come an Edinburgh change of scenery, and oddities like herself seemed to simply present themselves. The proverb 'birds of a feather flock together' had never been more accurate than the situation in which she found herself. She was comfortable. Complete.

Suffice it to say that Mary Wallace had never been happier. Odd she may be, but that oddness hardly seemed all that bad when everyone else was just as strange.

_~The End of Greater Expectations~_


End file.
